Picking Up the Pieces
by gammara
Summary: Chapter 52. (Yeah, you read correctly.) Archer reaches Talon Station and talks with Shran's brother, Sav, about debts. Major plot is revealed. A personal thanks to everyone who contacted me (way too many to mention) asking for an update. I really appreciate you and everyone else reading.
1. Chapter 1

**Picking Up the Pieces**

**The Funeral**

A/N: Yes, I'm finishing up Two Things. Sorry it took so long. Yes, I'll continue with the other stories. And sorry that I have another one to put out there; I know it's driving you crazy. It's driving me a little crazy, too.

--

It rained harder that day than it had in some time … even for Miami; large water droplets fell quickly to an already saturated ground, leaving thick beads of water on parked shuttles and forming small rivers near gutters in the streets.

For some reason, despite knowing it was pouring, Archer left the hotel without an umbrella. Turning up the collar of his black trench coat, he walked fifteen blocks to the funeral. The streaks that ran down his face and clung to his hair felt good and he was too lost in his thoughts – regretting the day, regretting the loss of his friend – to notice his clothes had become completely soaked.

When he made it to the cemetery -- filled with banyan trees, crumbling tombstones and Spanish moss -- he shoved his hands in his pockets, bowed his head and headed for the Tucker plot. Each step took him past deceased Florida dignitaries (Spanish explorers, colonists, governors, congressman, warriors and judges) and finally to a hero, a hero, that children may not hear about in their history class. He spotted the gravesite … mainly because the crowd of people who'd gathered despite the torrential downpour.

Mrs. Mayzie Tucker, a slim woman in her sixties with a black dress and shining white pearls draped around her neck, buried her gray hair into her husband's shoulder. Mr. Charles Tucker II, a lean man with a thinning blonde head of hair, merely bowed his head to keep his eyes trained on the casket … the one his son occupied. The umbrella in his hand was black.

Archer eyes danced over other people gathered at this event. He caught Admiral Jeffries in the crowd, trying to blend in rather than use his rank and name to come closer; he wasn't wearing his uniform – just a black suit. A grimace worried his tan face and his thick frame slouched. Admiral Gardner was there, his form straight – legs spread barely apart and his hands behind his back like a soldier. There was Black, Smith ….

All of Starfleet's top brass was there.

All of them.

And so was everyone from Enterprise. Archer saw Hoshi – crying, locked arm in arm with both Reed and Mayweather. Reed's stiff upper lip trembled and he fished into his gray suit pocket to pull out a handkerchief for the woman next to him. Mayweather's head was bent and he took shallow breaths.

There was a slight woman with auburn hair and a black dress holding a large purple umbrella, as if it was the only one her hotel could provide, that protected her from the rain. Her face, although stoic, was sad as if she'd wrestled difficult and painful emotions and let them win. The glow that typically radiated around her was dampened and the sparkle in her eyes was gone. He noticed she clutched something in her hand, her thumb worrying over it.

Slipping beside her, he gave her a sad smile and then watched the ground.

"Dearly beloved, we're gathered here today --"

The pastor, a man with a wide-Irish face and round glasses, looked across the crowd and then down at his Bible. Even he had trouble getting the words out, as if he knew the commander and his sacrifice.

"To honor Commander Charles Tucker III as God welcomes him with open arms and takes him to his bosom."

At those words, T'Pol scooted closer to Archer and shared her umbrella with him.

"We remember Trip, the man. Gentle, caring, funny, sweet … a SCUBA diver. Mayzie and Charlie asked me to tell a story about their son. A boy of only nine years old, he managed to take apart the motor to their vehicle. When his father, upset and annoyed, came to talk to Trip, the boy smiled brilliantly. You know – the one he gave sometimes."

As a reflex, Archer nodded and smiled, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw that T'Pol bobbed her head, too. It made him wrap his hand around hers. She didn't protest, instead, she held his grip a little firmer.

"Charlie said, 'Trip, what's wrong with you? There's parts all over the garage.' Trip replied, 'I wanted to find out how it worked.' Charlie mad as all get out, watched his boy still beaming and then yelled, 'Couldn't you have just looked it up instead?' Trip said, 'I did. I just lost the page where it told how to put it back together.'"

A few chuckles filled the air. The pastor looked down at the lectern and then back at the people assembled. The speech continued, but Archer kept reliving the last moments of Trip's life … he had ever since the incident.

If he'd only sounded more resolute when the aliens came aboard, ordering Trip to stop. If he'd only refused to help Shran. If he'd only ….

Every step and action he'd taken he'd been second-guessing for the past two weeks. Being at the funeral, absorbing that his amiable engineer … his friend … was gone – as in never coming back – pushed those thoughts to the forefront. His eyes teared up and he realized with a staggered breath that the ceremony was over.

T'Pol's hand fell out of his grip and she tossed her IDIC onto the casket as it lowered and then was covered by dirt.

"I will … miss him," T'Pol mumbled.

When he gazed into her eyes, a drop of water rolled down her cheek. He wanted to wipe it from her face or join in himself, but instead his chin hit his chest.

"I will, too," he said.

Everyone began to disperse or make their way to offer final condolences to the Tuckers. As the crowd began to break apart, and Archer's eyes stayed on the coffin now being topped by soil, T'Pol leaned over.

"I'm staying in town for another night," she said.

She drew a deep breath and spoke more quietly. "I … could use a friend."

"Me, too," he said.

"Dinner tonight at the Sapphire. Six?"

"I'll be there."

The two made their way to the Tuckers. Having already talked with them before, Archer shook Charles Tucker II's hand and then hugged Mayzie. He said a few words, knowing they weren't nearly enough for having lost a son … another child. Then letting T'Pol have a few moments in private with them, he turned his damp collar up at the rain and headed back to his place.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Thanks for the nice comments, everyone.

T'Pol was staying at the Sapphire – named for the crystal blue waters that it overlooked. It was an enormous old Spanish-style hotel, resplendent with tropical gardens, palm trees and fountains. She stayed there most likely because it accommodated Vulcans: it had mediation nooks in every room, candles, a quiet environment and hired staff that were mostly compliant, not overly congenial, folks. She probably also agreed to stay there because it was close to the cemetery … only three blocks.

Because it was Miami in August, his body was already beginning to sweat, and his white linen shirt – the only clean shirt left in his suitcase – clung to his body a little despite splaying open the collarless neck. As he fiddled with it, shaking it in a vain attempt create a breeze, he crossed the terracotta tile of the lobby passing black iron candelabras and crosses.

When he gazed up again, his eyes caught T'Pol. She wore something that resembled a cross between a cocktail dress and a Vulcan robe. It had a Nehru collar, with short sleeves, but instead of the hem flowing to the ground, it hit her at the ankles. The color was a deep blue, like the name of the hotel, and shiny.

It was the most unVulcan he'd ever seen her wear, but fit in with the atmosphere of the restaurant. Realizing this must be what Vulcans called informal wear, he stopped in front of her.

"Thank you for coming," she said.

"My pleasure. You look--"

She waited.

"Nice," he said.

"I have few clothing left that are unsoiled."

"I know the feeling."

With that, the two headed to the restaurant only twenty paces away in silence. The waiter, probably detecting their somber mood, put them at a table in the corner of the room – one that was darker than the rest. The candle in the middle of the table glowed with less brilliance, casting a shadow on the two.

When they sat down, both grabbed their menus, picked out their items and ordered. Unlike most women, Archer mused, T'Pol always knew what she wanted without reservations or a change of mind. It's part of what he'd always admired about her. The thought made the left side of his mouth slope up just a smidgen.

"I spent some time with Mr. and Mrs. Tucker this afternoon, after the ceremony."

He exhaled and drank his water.

"They were … pleased … about the number of people at the ceremony."

He smiled, accepting the whiskey that was offered to him by the waiter, and finally spoke.

"I was happy to see everyone there, too. I spoke with Admiral Gardner just two days ago. I had no idea he was coming."

"I assumed you'd asked him to come."

"I did. But … well, he's been busy lately."

T'Pol tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I heard about the attacks."

His eyebrows lifted. "I didn't think you had that kinda clearance." Three cargo ships attacked by an unknown ship and for unknown reasons, leaving Starfleet more questions than answers. _He_ didn't even find out until two days ago, before he left for Miami.

And then it hit him. He sat back, holding the drink in his hand with a strange smile spreading across his face. Pride.

"Gardner offered you your own command, didn't he?" he asked.

"Yes."

Placing his elbows on the table, he leaned forward. "Congratulations, T'Pol. That's great."

Her eyes fell on the water in front of her, and she lifted it to her lips.

"You're going to accept it, aren't you?" he asked.

She remained quiet.

"T'Pol?"

After taking a long sip and setting it neatly back down, she finally lifted her eyes and stared at him.

"No."

"Listen, if it's about Trip--"

"No. I'm … uncertain about my feelings for Starfleet." She paused. "And I have been thinking about returning to my home."

"Vulcan?"

"Yes."

"Listen, during times like these it's difficult …. You shouldn't make rash decisions about your life after a traumatic event."

"I see. Like your decision to turn down a promotion?"

"That's different." Archer squirmed in his seat. "I can't see myself as admiral. I mean, I can't see myself behind a desk – pushing papers, telling captains what and where to explore. That's just not me."

"I didn't realize filing papers and giving orders were the only things Admiral Gardner did."

He narrowed his eyes and smirked at his drink; she had him, but he'd be damned if he'd admit it. So, he switched gears.

"What are you going to do on Vulcan?"

"Consider my options. Did I tell you I received a communiqué from Minister T'Pau?"

"No."

"She asked me to meet with her next Tuesday."

"Did she say what the meeting was about?"

"No," she responded.

"You're not going to meet with her … are you?"

"Captain?" she said.

"You are?" She didn't respond, so he asked again. "I guess you are. And … I think you can call me by my name, T'Pol."

Squinting her eyes, he could tell she wondered after all these years what he'd want to be called.

"Jonathan is fine," he said.

"Very well … Jonathan."

He smiled.

"Yes, she's arranged for us to talk next week."

"That's why you're going to Vulcan?"

"Not entirely."

Trying to imagine what the minister would want, he threw down the rest of his drink. Half-lidded eyes watched as she explained the cryptic note she received and what she planned on doing while on the planet. Her explanation was vague – a Vulcan ritual that is renewed as necessary … like the one given on P'Jem, but his brain echoed a word: Kolinahr.

Images of Vulcans wearing restraints, cloaked in black robes, prostrated themselves in front of priests. Their teeth gnashed, their cheeks flushed with emotion, they sometimes cried out to purge whatever remained … inner demons. It was an ancient practice Vulcans underwent to seek logic and reason … to suppress emotions. He wasn't sure how he knew that information – she certainly didn't mention it. And yet it flittered in his brain like a candle being lit for meditation.

Stopping her, he said the name of the ritual.

"The Kolinahr," he whispered.

Rather than answer, an eyebrow prodded up against her forehead and she slowly returned a few words.

"I sometimes find it … troubling what knowledge you retained from Surak's katra."

Tightly, he grinned. "Me, too." Then ducking his head, his fingers knotted his cloth napkin. "You know, we've always appreciated you just the way you are."

Her eyes fell back on the tablecloth.

"Why the sudden decision to do it?"

"The decision is hardly sudden."

"You've been thinking about this for a while?"

"Yes."

"And it's not just because Trip died?"

Her eyes level on him, and under the weight he rested his chin on his chest.

"If it is," he began, "there's nothing to be embarrassed about."

She sighed. "Jonathan, Trip and I had a … relationship."

"I know."

She nodded. "It took place many years ago, but …."

"You're confused?"

"Yes. In numerous ways. I've been planning to return to Vulcan and begin this ritual for some time …."

He knew when it probably started. "Since your mother died?"

"Yes."

"I'm sure this funeral has brought up painful memories about her."

"I would hypothesize you _do_ know."

He sighed. "Yeah." Giving a sad smile, he crossed his legs. "There was a torrential rain the day of Dad's funeral. But, it didn't stop everyone from coming."

T'Pol was silent, and he leaned over. "You'll get through this."

"I was wondering about you," she said.

Smirking slightly, he agreed. "_We'll_ get through this."

Dinner wore on and the two talked about everything -- old times, his speech and the press' glowing write-ups, the Federation and how the organization was going to change politics. They talked about Trip, how much he meant to them, including stories regaling exactly how much they cared for the engineer.

And they discussed the future: what would happen to everyone from Enterprise. Phlox had already accepted a position on Earth to lead Starfleet medical. Hoshi agreed to an assignment to Starfleet Central Command to decipher languages. Reed was drafted by Starfleet Security to assist with tactical procedures – like perfecting "tactical alert." Travis was still hedging between running his own cargo ship and accepting an assignment aboard the Apollo.

One thing was for sure, life wasn't standing still. Everything was moving on, whether Trip died or not.

"It's 0115," he said. His eyes apologetically met their waiter's, who obviously were on the verge of kicking him out.

"I didn't realize it was so late," she said.

He stood up and set his napkin on the table, long having paid the bill. When his mouth opened to make his exit, she stopped him.

"I have something for you," she said. "Come upstairs with me."

A little taken aback, he scratched the back of his neck and she reiterated.

"Jonathan, come upstairs. I have something for you."

The two walked in comfortable silence to her room. When they walked in, Archer took it in – it had the same Mission style décor, several cathedral-like candles to light up the room (which she did immediately on entering) and a small meditation nook.

After taking a few minutes to light every single one in the room and unveil a balcony behind a thick layer of tan curtains, she took his arm and led him to the balcony. When they walked out, he looked up at the stars. On Miami Beach, hotel signs were illegal, and the night lit up under the moonless sky – speckled with the constellations and celestial bodies he'd been gazing at since he was a child.

Orion. Cassiopeia. Ursa major and minor. Venus. Mars. And as his eyes scanned the sky, he thought about traveling among them.

"It's beautiful."

She put a small box into his hand. "You presented something to me on my promotion. I wanted you to have this when you accept the admiralty."

"I'm not --"

"I believe you will," she said. Her eyes focused back on the sky.

He opened the box and withdrew the item: a golden telescope, made probably in the 1800s, with an expanding lens like the ones he'd seen in old pirate movies while aboard Enterprise. Like an accordion, he brought it out to its fullest length and watched the heavens with a large grin. Then, contracting it to its smallest shape, he looked at her.

"This is …. I don't know what to say."

"You once told me that one of the reasons you enjoyed being captain was – you liked to show others the 'wonders of the universe.'"

"But, being admiral … I don't know about--"

"As admiral, Jonathan, you would have that opportunity on a daily basis."

"T'Pol--"

"Change is inevitable. Things cannot … and will not remain constant. You have an obligation to the future, to those who want to explore. I believe you will realize that and accept the position." Turning her head to face him, she reiterated. "It's only logical."

He was quiet. Instead of speaking, he fingered the instrument in his hand.

T'Pol continued, her voice hushed and reflective. "Enterprise's decommission, Trip's death …. Change is the only constant in the universe, whether it is hoist upon us or is something we contribute to."

The blue material in her dress blanketed in darkness, yet her face shone – as it always did.

"Will I see you again?" he asked.

She turned back to the balcony and leaned on it, facing the heavens. "I doubt we will ever lose touch."

"The Kolinahr can take months. Years."

"Yes. It has been known to take as many as twenty years."

"I know. I know you won't be able to communicate with anyone during that time."

"Yes."

"Our life spans --"

"As my friend, you will always be in my thoughts."

"I'll miss you, too." Licking his lips, he admitted to her with a soft chuckle, one meant purely for himself. "I'll miss you a lot."

She stared at him and he lowered his head.

"Listen, I better …. I have a flight tomorrow," he said.

"As do I," she said.

"Let me know when you're on Vulcan before the ritual. I mean, I … I hope you contact me."

"Of course."

He nodded. Wondering whether to hug her in a bear embrace, T'Pol held up her hand.

"Live long and prosper, Jonathan Archer."

He returned the gesture. "Peace and long life."

When both lowered their hands, he leaned over and kissed her cheek. And on righting his posture, he whispered to her.

"I'll talk with you soon."

Before either had a chance to say anything else, always hating goodbyes anyway, he turned on his heel and walked out the door. When he hit the lobby he noted with a grimace it was raining again, but this time he'd forgotten his raincoat.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: I hope I have T'Pol's age right. I figure I'm within a year. Thanks for being so patient. Yes, the other fics are coming.

_- One year later - _

Tugging at the stiff material of the admiral's blue collar, he walked into the party and immediately snatched a glass of wine that was floating nearby on a tray. Archer brought the red liquid to his lips and sucked in the taste hoping to melt the troubles of the day away. The troubles: more reports of marauders – including proven involvement from the Orions. It would need some negotiations and deliberation and one of the most prestigious ambassadors, someone who'd been leading the council for the past three years, was retiring … at least from Earth.

Ambassador Soval.

Barely able hear the classical music, played by a string quartet over the light buzz of people chatting through the large white marble hall, he sneaked into a corner and watched the events from the shadows.

A woman with long, dark hair and a red strappy dress walked near him and for a minute, he took his glass away from his mouth.

"Hoshi." He smiled.

"I almost didn't expect you to show," she said. "I know you hate goodbyes."

Archer raised his eyebrows and countered her argument. "I wouldn't miss Soval's retirement. Besides, I've been asked to say a few words."

His eyes caught the man – gray hair and a little slowed with age, but not overly so. Soval was making the rounds and saying his goodbyes to various diplomats and aids.

"I think we're all going to miss him," she said. Her eyes landed on the same figure.

Archer sipped his wine and remained in quiet agreement.

"Ever think you would? I mean … no offense, sir, but I remember a time when you couldn't stand him."

Grinning, he agreed. "Well, I can remember a time when I couldn't stand T'Pol, too."

"Things change."

"So do people."

"Speaking of, where is she?" Hoshi asked. "I kind of expected her to be here."

Archer looked into his glass. "I still haven't heard from her."

"Did you ask Soval about her?"

"Recently?" he asked.

He'd asked Soval about her from time-to-time for the past year, but the Vulcan seemed just as in the dark about what was happening with her. She was incommunicado. Apparently the only thing Soval knew was: she'd entered the monastery at P'Jem (something Archer found ironic) for the Kolinahr; Soval didn't know how long it would last and hadn't indicated she'd left.

"Jon," Hoshi whispered.

He awoke from his daze.

"Soval would tell me if he'd heard from her," he said.

She sipped at the glass in her hand. "Yeah, I guess so. Hey, did you hear Malcolm got promoted?"

Archer grinned. "Captain?"

She nodded. "Don't tell him that I let you know. He's been wanting to tell you himself." Pointing to the man, who was eating appetizers next to Phlox and waxing philosophic about security protocols in Starfleet, she smiled. "He's practically glowing."

"How do you know he's been promoted? I don't see the pips on his uniform."

"Uhmmm, I hear things."

"I see." He raised both eyebrows and his eyes twinkled.

"I _am _in the communications department you know."

"Yes."

"I mean, I'm privy to all kinds of information."

"No doubt."

"All kinds."

"Sure."

"Lots of information," she said.

Quietly he added a few words. "So am I."

Her eyes darted over to his and his closed mouth became toothy.

"You better get that smug look off your face," she said.

"Not a chance." He beamed under her frown. "The cat's already out of the bag."

Frowning, she stared at him.

"Apparently Admiral Duval's niece is your student for Vulcan 101."

Her eyes narrowed into slits.

As he was about to tease her further, Gardner tapped a wine glass at the front of the room and the string quartet and chatter died down.

"Thank you for coming this evening. We're here tonight to say goodbye to a legend in these halls. Ambassador Soval. It's been a pleasure and privilege to work with him. He's been on Earth for more than sixty years – helping us to forge a deep and meaningful friendship with his people. He's been instrumental in the Federation, serving as its president. It's tonight that we honor this man, and his accomplishments. To Ambassador Soval."

Archer sighed, with pride and reflection at having known the man almost his entire life, and drank. This was the end of an era – in part, the era of his father.

"I've asked someone to say something. Jonathan?" Gardner asked.

Archer straightened up and headed to the front. Looking down at the PADD he'd recovered from his front pocket he sighed and stuffed it back in, deciding to wing it.

"Soval wasn't the first Vulcan on Earth, but he's certainly been here the longest. Striking a balance between non-interference and guidance, they helped us into a universe where we're not only explorers, but we're negotiators, peacemakers and guardians. And he understand's the human spirit – humor, the sacrifice one makes for a friend and loss. I've known Soval almost all my life. I … no, we all … will miss him greatly. Our loss is T'Pau's gain. Live long and prosper, Soval."

A round of "hear, hear" filled the ballroom. Everyone took a sip and Soval opened his mouth.

"I am honored. And … touched. I thank you for coming, though … I understand it is customary to hold these gatherings, despite how one feels about the recipient."

Laughter broke out as the ambassador looked on the throngs gathered for him. Stoically, he clasped his hands behind his back and sullied forth.

"I have served Vulcan as ambassador to Earth in human years, 'a long time.' During that time, I have come to … appreciate your planet, your customs and your people. I look over the faces tonight, and I remember our first meetings."

The Vulcan flattened his lips for a moment and then continued. "It was a difficult decision. Although Minister T'Pau has asked me to serve as part of the High Command with her, she had to offer the position more than once to sway me. That is the depth of the … feeling I have for you. Peace and long life to you all."

Applause and "awwws" filled the ballroom. And when that died down the party kicked back up – the classical music played, people made a beeline for Soval and a few headed back to the appetizer table.

"Admiral," Soval said to Archer.

Reed walked up to stand behind guest of honor and beamed.

"Ambassador." Dropping the formality, Jon shook his head. "Soval, I'm not sure what to say."

"I am appreciative that we have been able to talk more regularly for the past year."

"Same here. I still don't understand why you accepted T'Pau's assignment."

"Change is the logical progression of life. My time on Earth has come to an end."

Hoshi said, "I hear you turned down a teaching post at Starfleet."

Soval poked an eyebrow up. "Serving Vulcan is what I have spent a lifetime doing, despite appreciating the culture and the climate here. That and … my youngest child is going to deliver offspring soon."

Archer smiled. "You're retiring for grandchildren?"

"I feel a sense of … dismay for having missed their births. I am too old to miss another. And it is incumbent upon me to pass my knowledge onto the youth of Vulcan. T'Pau is too transfixed in the old ways to do so alone."

For a moment, it looked like he'd smiled.

Hoshi shook her head. "You still have time. Vulcans live up to 200 years."

His kindly eyes accepted her words. "That is a long time, even for us."

Reed leaned in, breaking the awkward silence. "Do you know anything about the person that will take your place?"

"That is still being arranged."

"Any candidates rise to the top?" Reed asked.

Soval drew his lips into a flat line. "It is a difficult decision."

"I can scarcely imagine anyone would live up to your achievement. Ambassador to Earth. Ambassador representing Vulcan at the Federation. Your record speaks for itself, sir," Reed said.

Soval stood taller than Archer had ever remembered. "It has been my greatest achievement … to live on Earth."

Reed inadvertently put his arm around Hoshi who cuddled into his shoulder. Archer gave a half-smile, trying not to look too pleased.

"I'll just be sorry to miss chess games," Archer said. The smile that overtook his face was difficult to hide, despite trying.

Soval leaned in and said a few words that blew the admiral away. "Your father would have been proud."

Phlox joined them, and the four talked for another hour or so, until the ambassador excused himself to say his goodbyes to the others. With that, Hoshi and Reed left and finally Phlox and one of his wives left as well. Archer stayed until late, watching someone who he would've considered a nemesis at some points in his life with awe. In less than three days, he'd be gone.

It was the end of an era.

* * *

It was only 0700, but Archer had already had three cups of coffee, a habit for days that began before 0600. His aid, Lt. Diane Travers, was in the process of briefing him via the intercom of his schedule – everything he had to do between now and 2400 when he usually headed home. Pacing around his small office, wearing a pattern on the blue carpet by winding his way around a wooden desk and a chair with rollers on the bottom, she sharpened her tone and he stood still. As she was reeling off a list, including meetings (with staff, dignitaries Federation council and Gardner), lunch appointments and a report that was already overdue, he noted each event to himself with dissatisfaction. He'd be running from one engagement to another, sometimes in other buildings. It was just like nearly any other day, despite the growing tension with the Orions. 

"That's all, sir."

_That's all? _He'd be lucky if he actually left at 2400.

"Diane, it seems like I won't be able to attend the dinner tomorrow night. I'd like you to--"

The aid interrupted. "You're looking for an excuse aren't you?"

"No, of course not. I just had something come up that I--"

A cranky female voice answered. "It's Matt's birthday. Are you telling me you want to get out of your bosses birthday gala?"

Archer stared at the comm. "He'll have another one next year."

"And I'm sure you'll want me to get you out of that one, too. No, sir. You're going."

"_Lieutenant_ Travers--"

"I have to be there, so do you."

"Well, tell ya what. You find an excuse and--"

"Admiral, you're going."

Just as his mouth hung open to answer the tiny metal box in front of him, he realized that she turned off the device in protest. When his body swung toward the door to chastise her, he acknowledged - not aloud of course - that she was probably right.

"Aids," he grumbled to himself.

With a sigh, he sat down and looked through his calendar, wondering if there was a way he could get himself out of the stiff-ass, dress uniform event where he'd be expected to glad hand a bunch of politicians and diplomats.

Matt was a nice guy … even a good boss, and he'd want to be there to wish him well. The problem was: Soval's retirement party was only a few nights ago.

The two had started their relationship on shaky ground – on first meeting, a young Jonny Archer had stuck out his hand and announced his name and instead of taking it and exchanging an introduction, the Vulcan looked at his father with disdain.

And yet, they were now friends. The two had been meeting for the past year for lunch almost every day, played chess together sometimes after work and talked about the future of human and Vulcan relations. The ambassador must've considered him a friend as well, too; he'd debrief him on events that happened behind the closed door of the council. He'd give him information about Vulcan and how T'Pau was concerned about a growing threat to the universe: the Romulans. The only thing Soval wouldn't talk about was T'Pol; he didn't know any information anyway.

T'Pol.

Maybe one of the reasons he'd kept in such close contact with Soval was: he was the link to T'Pol and his father. He hadn't heard from his previous first officer for almost a year …. His last communication with her, when she returned to Vulcan, was the day before she entered the Kolinahr ritual, and during their discussion she admitted a hypothesis: she'd be in the Kolinahr for most likely ten years to rid her of emotions that plagued her.

_Ten years._

As his thoughts traveled to his old friends, he heard the door squeak open. Starfleet insisted on the kind of old wooden doors that added a sense of occasion to the offices.

"Yes," he said. His eyes looked up at his assistant. 'What do you want, Diane?"

A 65-year old, tough as nails assistant with short gray hair and piercing blue eyes met him.

"Admiral, you're going to be late for your appointment with the new Vulcan ambassador."

He shrugged. Gathering a PADD in his hand, he recalled the name: T'Lin. He'd never heard of her, and didn't care.

She placed her hands on her hips. "Matt's not going to be happy."

Archer frowned. Giving a glare to his aid, as if he wasn't doing this to make her happy, he reached for his PADD. Once he did, she smiled.

"You can stop looking so pleased with yourself," he said. "I'm going to this too, I suppose."

Producing a toothy grin, she agreed. "Yes, sir."

With that, he headed out the door and down the hall to Gardner's office. The room was much larger than his, held a large seal behind his desk – making him look more official – and had newer carpeting. The joke at Starfleet was: the higher in the chain of command you are, the better the carpeting.

"Where is everyone?" Archer asked. He'd planned on dawdling just enough to be barely on time.

"Jon, sit down," Matt said. The man's lips sloped up. "I only asked you to come."

Dignitaries were usually greeted with phony baloney formality, even for the Vulcans, including a band or choir, a ceremonial handshake from Prime Minister Dean (who'd make a special trip) and a photo opportunity right before some sort of social event that night or the next day. This Vulcan was "coming under the radar."

He nodded, furrowing his brow. "You seem in a good mood, sir."

"I am," Gardner said.

"So, why just me?" Jon asked.

"I wanted you to see her first."

"You meet her?"

"Yes, I have."

"Well?"

"Hard to describe really."

Archer snorted. "No one can fill Soval's shoes. No one."

"It'll take some time."

Looking down at his watch, he noted that this T'Lin was a little late. "I read in the report she's under eighty."

"Yeah, she's seventy three."

"They're sending us a kid."

"Didn't you tell me once that seventy is like being in your mid thirties?"

He ignored the question. "Hardly seems like enough time to really understand the finer points. The report didn't say what kind of experience she has."

"No, it didn't. But, I think she'll be qualified. I doubt Minister T'Pau would provide someone who wasn't."

"Soval was over one hundred and sixty. Did you know that more than sixty of those years were spent on Earth understanding our culture?"

Matt grinned. "Yes, you said so at his retirement to me … several times."

"Soval _understood_ our culture. He got the nuance of jokes and emotions."

"Yes, he did."

"I'm sure this … T'Lin … is going to need a lot of council on human customs and rituals, not to mention the nuance of jokes and emotions. As the admiral assigned to that area, I know I'll be the one debriefing her."

"I don't know. We'll just have to wait and see."

"I bet Minister T'Pau sent us some stiff Vulcan woman who'd rather--"

A voice behind questioned. "Rather what?"

Standing quickly, he snapped to attention. Walking directly in front of him, two large brown eyes stared up at him with bemusement.

"Rather what, Jonathan?"

A smile broke out over his face as he stared at the woman he never expected to see: T'Pol. Swinging his arms around her, he hugged her to his chest – a crushing grip – as he swayed slightly back and forth. Each gentle rock caused him to chuckle and he pressed his cheek against hers.

Matt laughed in the background.

"You're an easy mark, Jon," he said.

Rubbing her shoulders with his hands, Archer continued to beam at her. "You're T'Lin?"

"The ruse -- it was Admiral Gardner's idea."

"Did Soval know?"

"He was privy to the … omission of the truth only a few days ago."

"Why just a few days?"

"I had not made a decision until then."

He chuckled a little more and opened his mouth. Instead, he gave her another bear hug.

"You took the job three days ago?"

"Yes."

Her eyes scanned Gardner as if hesitant to reveal more. Archer understood immediately and nodded.

"Well, I'm glad you did."

Gardner coughed. "I was hoping you wouldn't mind showing her around."

Archer recalled the formalities. "I thought you'd want to introduce her to the rest of the staff."

"We're doing that tomorrow – 1900 hours."

"Your birthday party?"

"You're so easy, Jon. The event is for T'Pol. My birthday's was three months ago."

He furrowed his brow, trying to remember the party. "Diane?"

"You forgot I knew her long before you did. Damn … just too easy," Matt said. He walked them to the door, slapped Archer on the shoulder and then headed back to his desk.

For the first time he looked at her, really looked at her. Her auburn hair – it was still highlighted as if she'd fussed over it – hung around her shoulders. The robes she wore were an earthy green and sparkled against her skin. Uncommon to other Vulcans, she wore lipstick and rouge just as she had on Enterprise. And yet this time, something about her eyes seemed to miss the twinkle they usually held.

"God, it's good to see you," he said.

He walked with her down the corridor back to his office. As he passed Lt. Travers desk, he scowled which made her glow triumphantly. Ignoring her, he led T'Pol to a seat in his office and closed the door.

"You look great," he said. The comment hung on his tongue and he corrected himself. "I mean … you look well-rested and … happy. You completed the Kolinahr?"

Nudging the collar of her robe, she shook her head. "No."

He sat in the chair next to her, rather than at his desk and folded his leg over his knee.

"I … did not complete the ritual."

He remained silent.

"There's a different path for me."

At his raised eyebrows she continued. "At least that's what T'Pau told me."

Waiting still, he noticed she leaned forward. "I know humans. I understand them. T'Pau asked me to be her ambassador to Vulcan here for Earth."

"Three days ago?"

She disagreed. "No, a year ago. When I came to Vulcan. Soval had agreed to accepting a position on Vulcan."

"He said something about being close to his grandchildren?"

"Yes. I think he can do great things on Vulcan."

"Why did you wait a year to give your approval?"

"It … took some time to consider."

"And it took you two days agree and get here?"

She hesitated. "I'd packed a week ago. I informed T'Pau of my decision recently."

He smiled. "I'm glad you did."

"I see you accepted a position as admiral."

"T'Pau told you?"

"Yes. I asked about you, Malcolm, Hoshi, Travis and Phlox."

A name felt like it should've been called and to honor it, he looked down at his feet. "The reason I accepted the promotion was …. Your words … I thought you were right."

"I was and am."

"So, we'll be working together quite a bit. I'm the admiral assigned to deep space travel, including planets like Vulcan, Andoria, Tellar …."

"I know."

He smiled more.

"Do you need any tea?"

"No."

Archer stood, and she followed in suit. "Lemme show you around."

"You don't have other appointments?"

Shrugging, he walked out the door and to Travers. As soon as he stood in front of Travers' desk, she looked up and replied with a hint of irritation.

"Sir, give me a break. I know what this would mean to you. I cleared your calendar all day."

"Then why did you ask me to come early and review my schedule?"

She replied with a sassy smile. "Because I could."

T'Pol tipped an eyebrow up, and the two walked down the hall as he showed her every room and eventually the council of the Federation which she'd be serving on. They walked the grounds and even had lunch in what Archer called the fancy Starfleet dining room.

All the while, the two caught up on events. T'Pol had seen Koss, but it had been brief and somewhat painful; he was in love with her and she was still somewhat indifferent to him and yet grateful. The mixed emotions were difficult to reconcile for her. The house of her mother's looked the same; somehow her refrigeration unit fizzled again. She also gave a report on T'Pau. The young woman had grown into her role – both in stature and in prestige. She'd already begun dying her hair black as was the custom from old and spoke exclusively in Vulcan even if she knew other languages like a pro. T'Pau had harkened that Vulcan would return to the values of yore. And most Vulcans awaited logic and discipline like clinging to a security blanket. T'Pol ended the revelation with a few words: "She was a good fit for minister."

During the conversation nothing was mentioned of the Kolinahr. No remark that it was too difficult. No statement that the priest had asked her to leave, just a simple statement that clung to him: it was not her path.

After 1500 hours when they were done, and the two had simultaneously debriefed each other on a year's worth of events, Archer propped his hand against the doorway of her office, where both ended up.

"Does Hoshi, Malcolm and --"

"No. They are unaware of my presence."

"You know they'll want to see you."

"Perhaps tomorrow morning?"

"I can arrange breakfast. Have you already checked into your new place?"

"I don't have one."

"What!"

"I'm staying at the headquarters for the time being."

Archer looked as if he was slapped in the face. "No way. We're heading back to my office and we'll get you something by the end of the day."

Marching ahead with a mission, he stopped when he felt a hand curl around his bicep.

"No."

"T'Pol, it'll take me a few minutes to--"

"Don't. Having a night here to myself would be welcome."

"In the office?"

"The couch apparently folds into a bed and--"

"No. No way. Why wouldn't you want a hotel?"

"I need time to adjust. I need … I need time."

It struck him that visiting him, in particular, was an honor. "Why don't you stay with me. Plenty of privacy."

Two large, brown eyes batted at him. "I presume you have two rooms."

A low chuckle left his lips, erupting from his diaphragm. "I have three."

She didn't respond.

"Do you have any bags?" he asked.

"I have the one in my office."

"Let's go get it."

As they made their way to her new space, she remained quiet. When they entered – she stared at the blue carpet and whispered to him.

"I'm not ready."

By the low voice, it was clear she meant she wasn't ready to be an ambassador. He smiled. "Oh, yes you are."

"I keep wondering if this was a mistake."

"Change is the logical progression of life," he awkwardly quoted. He knew this was a quote from Surak, one that held deep meaning for the Vulcan people.

"Yes." A bowed head looked up. "Jonathan, the Kolinahr was … difficult. I don't know--"

He waited, but she didn't finish the sentence, and right now he knew better than to press her.

"Give it time," he said. Grabbing her bag, which felt amazingly light, he led her back down the hall and toward the parking garage. As they did, he wondered exactly what happened and why this T'Pol seemed more timid than he can ever remember her being.

_It'll take some time._

_  
_TBC


	4. Chapter 4

Dinner between the two was quiet, and she noticed at several points during the conversation, her mind wandered. Even when they sat on the couch talking, her focus was frazzled and at one point he called to her several times before she realized he'd said anything at all. Awkwardly, she apologized – which he took in good spirits – and the two ended their evening with him adding pillowcases to her bed, after fluffing them, and pointing out a nightlight in the room so she "didn't stub her toe."

The moment he left and she turned out the light, she meditated. But, for the most part it was fruitless. Just as serenity was in her grasp and her thoughts had quieted, she swatted away bliss and flung open her eyes.

_Perhaps I should sleep._

Even slumber wouldn't come. She lay awake thinking of tomorrow, meeting admiral and after admiral and attending a gala that, in all honesty, she didn't want to be at much less the guest of honor. She also pondered her failings in the Kolinahr. It annoyed her – an emotion – but she reviewed those failings almost daily.

Ten steps. A mere ten steps toward enlightenment were all that awaited her: eschewing the mundane, calming the mind, achieving distance and perspective, accepting relativism, valuing truth, acting with integrity, determining purpose, realizing thought, acting judiciously and embodying peace.

In truth, the priest found her difficult because she couldn't get past the second step: calming the mind. The theory was essential to meditation, vital to the Vulcan culture and significant to her personally. It was a humiliating defeat that she could not hush her own mind.

Laying in the dark on an overstuffed bed, she heard Jonathan's gentle snore.

_He's asleep._

The moment she'd heard his grumbling about Soval's replacement in Gardner's office, she had the urge to hug him, and felt a small amount of relief that he initiated the contact. When his arms wrapped around her and his cheek, scratchy thought it may be, touched hers, she felt a little easier. And when she felt him smile against her face, his embrace tightened.

Something about him was comforting; something about him had always been comforting – like an old blanket. It's why she'd accepted his invitation to stay here.

Maybe there was another reason. He was a connection to Trip. Every day, while at the sanctuary, she reflected on her life. Instead of seeing the mist of white surround her – nothingness - she saw Enterprise. When she thought about Enterprise, she thought about Archer. When her mind lighted on Archer, Trip sprang forth and wrecked her concentration. He wouldn't leave her thoughts.

_Not just him._

His final moments wouldn't leave her thoughts.

Although she hadn't witnessed his amazing sacrifice, she relived it several times over from the tales she'd heard others tell – Trip bartering for Archer's life and his last words before he fell into the final sleep.

She hadn't been there for a goodbye; at the instant of his death, she was busy ordering security to take any survivors – of which there were none – to the brig. In Archer's haste to save Trip, he'd neglected that duty.

_Duty._

Being on the bridge as Trip breathed his last breath was a pitiful way to remember her comrade and once lover. The instant hardly did him justice and left her feeling unsettled. Unresolved.

The events after were a blur – packing his belongings, arranging for a time to meet his parents, arriving at a hotel and attending the funeral. The only moment that made any of it real, was spending the foggy haze of grief with her friend … her captain. Somehow their hurt, the one they shared together, made it more bearable.

Suddenly realizing hours had passed, she listened for the familiar sound of snoring and heard none. Looking up, she noticed with a start that he was at the door.

"Sorry, I took a chance that you couldn't sleep either."

"Something the matter?"

A groggy voice responded. "I had a dream."

Lumbering in – wearing a Starfleet shirt with a few holes in it and a pair of shorts – he sat heavily at the end of her bed. She let the covers fall around her waist and sat up.

"I dreamt you had something to tell me," he said, scratching his head. "It was something important."

She hesitated. "Your dream, perhaps it was prophetic."

"I knew something was wrong. You've been quiet tonight."

Nodding, she produced a sigh and then stared up at her previous commander.

"Emotions, they are difficult sometimes for me to understand. I _feel_, but I sometimes have no frame of reference … nothing to compare it to. Vulcans don't speak of these things."

"It's always difficult, even when you can compare it to something else and talk about it."

"Trip's death has been difficult for me."

"I know."

"Was it difficult for you?"

"Yes. I find myself reliving it sometimes, wishing I could change things …."

He became silent and stared down at his own lap.

"But, it appears you have been able to put it into perspective. Continue on successfully."

He shrugged and gave a sad, ironic smile. "I don't think you ever put 'death' into perspective. I think you simply … accept it."

"Do you feel a fire in your stomach an emptiness that seemingly knows no end -- as if you'd sacrifice yourself to simply be with him again? Do you recall conjuring the smell of him or trying to remember the way he laughed?"

"You feel that way?"

"Yes," she said.

"Sounds like you were in love with him."

She eyed him for a moment and felt her eyebrow slant up in a question.

"That's what it feels like, T'Pol. That's what romantic love is." His eyes remained on her, unfaltering.

"You've felt romantic love?" she asked. The question was awkward and he shifted only slightly.

"I've made you uncomfortable," she said.

"No, we just haven't talked about this before. Have I felt romantic love? Sure. It's hard to find a human – male or female – who hasn't. It's part of the human condition."

"You've felt sorrow and grief unending? Like a veil or a cloud that has enveloped you? Is that part of love?"

"Yes."

Watching him, she shook her head. "Jonathan, will this always be with me?"

"The sorrow? No. It'll fade, just give it time."

When it became silent, he pushed his form off the bed. Just as he did, she realized she had more to say.

"I failed the Kolinahr."

Shock displayed on every muscle in his face. "I didn't know. I'm sorry."

"The priest at P'Jem expelled me. He said that I couldn't focus … that I was unable to concentrate."

"I find that hard to believe."

Dropping her chin to her chest, she spoke quietly. "No, he was right. He was right about that, and he was right that I'd never be able to shake the need to experience emotion."

"He said that?"

"And much more."

Glancing up, she saw a frown on his face.

He said, "There's nothing wrong with emotion. Even Vulcans feel it; Surak did."

"I couldn't get past the second stage of enlightenment."

"You said it sometimes takes years … a lifetime."

"The second stage is something that even children excel in."

"I don't think--"

"Every moment I was in the temple, while others were in quiet reflection, I thought about Enterprise. Almost longing for it."

"Listen--"

"I spent hours in meditation wondering what would've happened if he hadn't died. Days thinking about him and his death."

"T'Pol--"

"T'Pau was right. Being with humans, feeling what they feel, it's my path. And I can't stray from it even if I wanted to. Even if I need to. Because I can't stop feeling."

"It's okay," he said. His hand almost touched hers.

"This has never been a problem, even when my mother perished. Why can't I stop? What's wrong with me?"

"There's nothing wrong with you. Just give it time. It'll subside."

Shaking her head and on the verge of tears, she maintained just enough composure to will the drops in her eyes not to fall. In the whirlwind of emotion and thought, she almost missed what Jonathan had to say.

"Margaret Mullen," he whispered.

"What?"

"I was crazy about her. I even …," he said. Looking out into the open window toward downtown San Francisco, he continued. "I asked her to marry me. I knew she was _the one._ You know, the one you want to wake up to every day. _The one._"

T'Pol waited. So far the story, and why he chose to bring it up now, was confusing.

"She turned me down." He kicked his foot against the beige carpeting. "She said she didn't love me enough, well she didn't say that, but that's what she meant …."

He looked back down at her.

"I went on with my life – you don't really have a choice. For a year or so I walked around like I was in a fog. Graduated from Starfleet, got a choice assignment. I should've been having the time of my life. Yet … nothing really felt like it mattered."

"Yes. What did you do?"

"Oh, I blamed myself on a failed relationship. You know, I worried that I'd focused on Starfleet too much … I'd spent too many hours talking to her about starships and I'd canceled too many dates."

She furrowed her brow.

"I blamed _myself _that she didn't love me. I examined all the things that were wrong with me and kinda came to the conclusion that no one would ever love me again. But, after a while I realized it wasn't my fault and that life was too short to be depressed. I also realized if she said 'no,' that she wasn't meant to be _the one_."

She was silent.

"You're not to blame for what happened with Trip … or that things didn't happen with Trip," he said.

Her eyes met his.

"And … I _know _the two of you were friends. I know it. In his own way, he loved you, too."

"I don't know that."

He smiled. "I do. Besides, what's not to love?" His smile broadened. "And as far as the Kolinahr, well, it always seemed dumb to me."

"Thousands of Vulcans participate each year."

He shrugged. "A bunch of Vulcans throwing chairs to purge emotions. And that's just for the first three months, right?"

Taken aback a little, she agreed. "They don't simply throw chairs."

"Okay, yelling, tossing statues, breaking chairs …. That doesn't sound silly to you?"

"It sounds like thousands of years worth of retooling and revising a program that has ensured the Vulcan way of life. It sounds like how thousands of Vulcans successfully rid themselves of emotion."

He smiled. "Usually I go running to purge emotions."

Her lips flattened, but a smile formed in her eyes. "I remember."

"I bet you do."

Looking down at the bed, she searched for something to say that would convey her gratitude.

"Jonathan, I'm sorry for--"

"I'm not. Get some sleep."

As he turned on his heel, she called after him. "Wait. What happened to Margaret?"

"Huh?"

"The young woman you asked to marry you?"

"She has a husband, two children in their teens and is a second grade teacher in Laguna, California."

"Life turned out well."

"I'm sure there have been a couple of days when she wakes up next to the insurance salesman she married, and wonders what would've happened if she'd married me."

"Do _you _wonder what would've happened?"

"I guess every now and again. Margaret is … in a way … always with me. Trip is always with me. And Trip will always be with you."

He pointed to his forehead. "He's here." And then he pointed to his heart. "And here. And examining your emotions in this case won't help. Love is … highly illogical."

"Emotions always are," she said. He chuckled at her joke.

"You can hold onto people you care about, and move on at the same time," he said. "There's nothing wrong with that."

"I didn't come to Earth and accept the position of ambassador with the sole mission of sharing this with you."

"I know. I'm sure you'd fully intended to stuff these emotions down and pretend they didn't exist."

For a second, she wondered if he was mocking her and then his lips tugged up at the corners.

"I'm glad you shared this with me," he said. "I feel honored."

Laying back on her bed, she nuzzled her head into the pillow, hoping she'd get a few hours sleep before breakfast.

"And don't worry about tomorrow. Should be a piece of cake."

She didn't respond; it didn't make sense to discuss her agitation about being in a crowd with people who waited to hang on her every word.

As if reading her mind, he responded. "You'll be fine tomorrow night," he said.

She nodded. "Thank you."

"Listen, why don't you stay here as long as you need. Weeks, months – it's okay."

"I don't know--"

"Until you settle in. Until you find another place."

"It's a generous offer, but--"

Archer ducked his head. "I'll give you plenty of space. Hell, I'm hardly ever home."

"There is sufficient space in here."

"I mean – time alone."

"I don't want to be an imposition."

"I wouldn't ask if you were. Besides, Porthos could use a friend. I don't get to see him much these days."

Having a place … something that was a transition … would be helpful. Although she'd never felt quite at home on Vulcan, adjusting here would take some time. And, she conjectured that having a friend available would most likely help. It certainly had tonight.

"I accept."

"Good." He smiled and walked out the door.

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Thanks to everyone! I hope this next chapter isn't confusing. Many of the finer points will be made clear in future chapters. And some of the whirlwind of activity is to show that T'Pol's day is crazy. Hopefully, you see some plot points coming along and explaining life after TATV. I really hope it'll be an interesting ride from here. I think you know what's coming: war.

I'm going to be out of town and wanted you to have this part. I apologize in advance for typos. I think I caught them all ...

Without further ado:

* * *

The Parkview: it served breakfast all day and sat at the end of the pier in San Francisco – giving a superb view of the water and Alcatraz. It was the kind of place tourists went to, but had such a stunning view that Archer went even when he didn't have guests in tow. 

Though it had the feel of a diner, it had a little class and pomp, feeling as comfortable as sitting on a couch, but had the elegance of a suit. T'Pol, in green traditional robes, complete with sash, fit in beautifully … almost like the belle of a ball. It was appropriate all eyes were on her.

Hoshi, Malcolm and Phlox from Enterprise were there, as well as Jonathan who accompanied her. Each of them was eager to see her; Hoshi gave her a small hug, Phlox wrapped his hand around hers as was the greeting for Denobulans and Reed gave her a warm smile.

All of them caught up on the events that had happened over the past year – teaching assignments, medical posts, tactical training and next steps. When Reed finally asked what T'Pol had done, the Vulcan froze.

"Thinking about the job and how prepare," Archer said. "Reed, I hear you got promoted to captain."

With that, the discussion had miraculously been diverted and had given the young man an opportunity to brag about his new role, be humble and hear the praises of his friends.

Halfway through breakfast, T'Pol asked a question that she thought was apparent, causing her former captain to chuckle loudly and eliciting an overextended smile from Phlox.

"How long have you been courting Hoshi?" T'Pol asked Malcolm.

When the Brit choked on his toast, T'Pol realized the relationship was clandestine.

Hoshi was the first to answer. "Did Admiral Archer tell you anything?"

"No," she said.

"I didn't have to," Archer answered. "It's obvious."

Reed finally snaked his arm around his girl. "Two months. I had to get to Starfleet Command for a debriefing. We had lunch … and somehow lunch turned into dinner and dinner turned into breakfast."

Hoshi swatted his arm. "Don't tell them that!"

Malcolm shrugged. "Well, why not? It's true."

It caused Archer's laugh to rumble again.

"There was a spark sometimes on Enterprise. You know, we rubbed each other sometimes the wrong way and sometimes the right way. But, in the end … there was just this connection between us."

Reed agreed.

As breakfast wound down, all of them said their goodbyes, promised to talk soon – not everyone was invited to the upper echelon to-do held in T'Pol's honor that evening. When T'Pol stood, Archer touched her arm.

"I'll take you to work. It's on my way."

The buildings for the Federation and Starfleet were literally across the courtyard from each other.

"I would appreciate that," she said.

"Considering my first meeting of the morning is with you, I think it's the least I can do."

* * *

It was customary for new ambassadors to give two speeches their first day and the order was peculiar. The first speech of the day was given to Starfleet (not the Federation) where the diplomat usually promised to be fair and just; the diplomat would also pledge to order the military arm of the Federation (and that's what Starfleet had become) into battle only when necessary. A bunch of admirals would fake applause and then the ambassador would send Starfleet in unnecessarily. 

The second speech was made to the Federation council, accepting the position of ambassador.

T'Pol knew her first assignment well. Archer, while still captain of the Enterprise, had complained about the phoniness of the whole thing, indicating he'd wished only once that ambassadors said exactly what was on their mind: they were there to represent the interest of their planet, but would try not to be "a bastard" because it was for the "common good."

She remembered those words as she stood at the front of a large, stuffy room full of middle-aged admirals, mostly men, all peering down their noses at her – all except one who seemed to beam up at her with pride.

When Admiral Gardner entered the room a few minutes late, the chitchat came a halt and everyone stood.

"Sit down." After noticing everyone take a seat, he continued. "I believe most of you have already met T'Pol. She'd be a captain now if Minister T'Pau hadn't offered her a fancier title."

T'Pol's eyebrows rose at the comment.

Gardner continued. "She's the new Ambassador of Vulcan. She'll be sitting on the Federation Council as a replacement to Soval, as if you didn't already know. You have the floor, T'Pol."

"Thank you, Admiral. Starfleet has been a home to me when none were available. And, it's a privilege to serve here with you – people that I already know and respect."

The crowd smiled. She licked her lips and continued.

"I'll be blunt. As the Ambassador to Vulcan, I'm here to represent my people. Although I have friends and allies on Earth, protecting Vulcan and its interests are my primary concerns."

The room grew quiet as Archer leaned forward in his seat, grinning.

"Vulcan has been one of the most vocal supporters of Earth and Starfleet. We've assisted you with technology at times. We've given aid to Earth in times of crisis – like the Xindi War. And we did so not because we had something to gain, but …. because it was the 'right thing to do.'"

She clasped her hands behind her back. "But, there is much more to the humans. I know from having served with them for ten years. Humans are unique. You change and adapt to the landscape around you. Quickly. Your emotions, though they rule your thoughts and actions, are filled with compassion and trust. And it is because of all these things that _you _brought the Federation into existence."

She looked around the room. "I will be asked to serve Vulcan and my people's interests, but will support humanity and Starfleet not because I once served with you, but because it is for the common good and in the best interests of the Federation, and the universe."

Archer's grin widened.

"Thank you," she said.

She stopped, thinking that was a sufficient way of wrapping up her true intent with the one that benefited the common good. Most admirals were silent, except Archer who managed to clap first. When the applause died down, Matt Gardner stood.

"Thank you for coming, Madame Ambassador."

And as was customary, she gave a bow, righted herself and was about to walk out the door to join the Federation Council when she saw Admiral Archer wink at her in support.

Her lips twitched at the gesture and she felt a spring in her step as she bounded down the hall.

* * *

The regulations of the Federation were more formal. An aid, a young Tellarite, was sent into the Federation Chamber to ask the Federation President for T'Pol's permission to enter. 

Unfortunately, the Vulcan could hear everything.

"President Gral, the Ambassador from Vulcan is here. She'd like permission to enter."

T'Pol imagined the silence to include the Tellarite wrinkling his snout. "Yes, yes. By all means, she's late. Send the skinny thing in here."

She waited for the aid to tell her, it seemed the polite thing to do, and drew her robes around her. Entering, she walked tall and hoped to portray a regal stature; being petite sometimes meant to other cultures she couldn't be imposing.

That wasn't the image she wanted.

"I thank you for your permission to join you, President," she said, bowing.

Looking around the room, she noticed the chamber was the opposite of what had been established on her last visit to Earth. In fact, it was nearly the antithesis of what she expected. The room was long, extremely warm (which didn't bother her) and had low lighting. The walls were white, stark, and a Federation seal hung behind the president's pig-like head. At the table were two of every species from the Federation: an ambassador from the planet and his or her aid.

After straightening, she turned to the man who'd been assigned as her aid. His black bowl haircut and brown eyes held a long stare. He'd been with Ambassador Soval for nearly ten years and in the back of her mind she wondered if his loyalty would transfer to her or remain with a man who was on Vulcan.

Swallowing deeply, she stood before them, waiting for Gral to say a few words; however, the Tellarite despite knowing her, made no introduction. Instead, he snorted as if prompting her to get on with it.

"I am Ambassador T'Pol of Vulcan. Minister T'Pau has asked me to come and represent the Vulcan government and her people. I, like all members of this council, pledge to protect the universe and bring long-lasting peace."

No applause echoed through the room; instead she heard the Tellarite who couldn't hold his tongue.

"Thankfully that was the shortest speech a Vulcan has ever given in these halls."

She poked her eyebrow up.

Without going around the room to introduce anyone, he pointed to her seat – as if that was her cue to sit.

"Funny you should mention peace. Take your seat. We have much to discuss."

Gral brought up a picture on the viewscreen and showed evidence – picture after picture - of an Orion battle cruiser committing acts of piracy against various species including a Tellarite, Earth vessel and a Vulcan vessel.

She'd been briefed about this before she left. Gral pointed up at the screen.

"Outrageous! I've asked Admiral Gardner to send someone from his staff to our afternoon session and present military options."

"Military options?" asked one of the delegates from Parong. His spiky hair and reptilian face was serene.

"Yes!" Gral said. "We've been over this."

T'Pol's aid, she knew his name to be Staron, leaned into her. "Madame, we must explore more peaceful options."

She furrowed her brow slightly. "We've explored that option. The Federation has sent various communications asking the Orions to stop – to their warlords, to the syndicate and to the ship captains themselves."

"And our only recourse is to fight?"

"To understand the most logical course of action, one must understand the Orions. They, like the Klingons, view battle as stimulating. They look for arguments and war. Unfortunately, they must be defeated to understand the impact and consequences of their actions … and why they can't attack vessels roaming the universe."

"Sanctions?" he asked.

Although many of the council member's planets traded with them, ending trade wouldn't stop the Orions from trading with people who weren't at the table.

"They'd continue to raid vessels," she said. "They've done so before."

The Vulcan remained quiet, but she could feel a hint of emotion. He was unhappy with her decision. Against her better judgment, she asked him to speak.

"Soval usually _listens_ to my suggestions."

"How old are you?" she asked.

"Fifty nine."

_He is young_, she thought. "Do you know why T'Pau asked me to take this position?"

It was obvious he couldn't fathom it. And just one night ago, she'd wondered herself. Reaching into the essence of herself, she answered, hoping to at least explain her experience and background.

"I have interacted personally with every species at this table. I have visited nearly all their home worlds. I know a few of the councilmen, including the president, by name. And I have strong ties with the humans."

He was silent.

"She offered this to me because of my experience and knowledge. I understand your support of Soval, but he chose to leave; he was never asked to."

The man bent his head and his voice was low. "You can choose to listen to me or ignore me. No matter which decision you make, I am still assigned as your aid."

She blinked.

He continued. "And excuse me, Ambassador, but everyone on Vulcan knows of your 'strong ties to Earth.' Had I not heard of how you'd served among them for so long, I would have hypothesized your connection based on your accent and the way you smell."

His delivery was cool and emotionless, which made the information more difficult to accept. She chose to answer just as stoically.

"Surak says: a mistake is often the opportunity to learn. Let's assume this is an opportunity to learn. Should you make such a _mistake _again, I will no longer require your services."

The two stared at each other. Remembering how she'd met the humans – how they'd hated her and how she'd detested them – gave her hope that eventually Staron would come around.

The President, who'd been on a tirade about how the Orions _dare_ to defy the Federation, eventually quieted after one of the Veral spoke up.

"The Orions trade heavily with us – including providing medicine from the Megran Colony. If we take sanctions against them … or engage in a war …."

An Andorian stood up and pounded his fist on the table. "We act together. The Verals can't choose to back out because it's not convenient."

"What medicine do you require, Merah?" T'Pol asked the Veral speaking.

The woman bowed her head. "Many of my people suffer from Klihams. The root of Gladon helps them."

"This is a waste of time!" Tamor, the Andorian Ambassador, replied.

Gral grunted.

Turning to her aid, T'Pol indicated. "Find out where Gladon grows and let's figure out who can trade that."

Staron puffed out his chest.

"I do not wish to send you back to Vulcan, but I will by noon if you are unable to help me."

His eyes met her eyes.

"Give me a report by noon," she said.

He stared and walked off to what she hoped would be the answer to her query.

"Gral, you were wise to ask for a recess. Let us discuss our predicament with our government before we act," T'Pol said.

The Tellarite snorted. "Very well. We are in recess until 0100."

As T'Pol stood, he walked to her. "Don't think because I know you and you helped me once that I owe you any special favors."

"You've never acted as if that were true."

He snorted – his version of a laugh. "You are the one Vulcan I can stomach."

With that, he left.

T'Pol looked at the chronometer and determined they had two hours. She thought she'd remembered exactly where her office was and headed in that general direction. After three wrong turns, an administrative assistant set her in the right direction and she eventually made it the area - thirty minutes later.

When she walked in, she saw a figure in a chair near her desk.

"I was wondering when you'd show up," Archer said.

"Jonathan."

"How'd you first meeting go?"

"Gral – I'd forgotten about him."

He chuckled. "The ambassador takes some getting used to."

She nodded slowly. "Did Soval ever mention his aid?"

"Not specifically."

"What did he say?"

Archer flung his eyes to the ceiling as if scanning his memory. After a few minutes he looked at her and shrugged. "That he was his aid?"

T'Pol pointed at eyebrow to him. "Did you come by for a specific reason?"

"Thought maybe you'd have time for lunch."

She walked over to computer, which she had yet to check and determine her schedule.

"I don't think so."

He nodded. "No problem." With a pause he glanced around the room. "I also wanted to warn you I'd be the admiral you talk to later today."

"The one to provide military options?"

His smile was sardonic. "Ironic isn't it?"

"Yes. Thank you for the information. If you excuse me, I need to contact Minister T'Pau."

He nodded. Before he left, he turned his head over his shoulder. "Tell her I said 'hi.'"

T'Pol shook her head, perplexed at human social behavior and contacted her superior. After greeting the woman, she decided to mention the Admiral had said hello. Although the minister was perplexed, T'Pol felt better for having done so.

It was a promise she'd fulfilled.

* * *

As 1257 approached, a crowd gathered outside the hall. Archer strolled up, wearing his uniform. On seeing him, Gral gave a piggish smile. 

"I see they let anyone come up here these days."

Archer stared down the little Tellarite. "I was about to say the same thing about you."

Gral snorted. "Don't tell me you're the one they sent?"

"All right, I won't tell you."

Everyone walked in and as a formality, Archer grabbed an aid from Tellar.

"I've been asked to speak with the council. Tell them I'm here."

When the aid entered, the entire room erupted bidding him entry, except one lone voice.

"I think we should discuss the representation of our government before we ask him to enter," T'Pol said.

The heads whipped around to her and Gral stroked his belly.

"Go ahead, Skinny."

She nearly frowned. "I understand that Andoria trades in the medicine your people are looking for Merah. Tamor, is that correct?"

He turned to his aid and the two talked. When he finally came up to face the group, his antennae wiggled.

"I guess, Vulcan. Do you have an allegation?" he asked.

"Merely making a comment. President Gral, if we take action, I would like to give the support of Vulcan and propose that Andoria assist the Verhals."

Merah, the Verhal rep, smiled and then pledged her support. Everyone backed it, except for the Andorians.

"We're not allowed to provide the trade," Tamor said. His voice sounded defensive and his antennae were squirming under the strain.

"You have not spoken with your government," T'Pol said.

"I don't need to. You're new, you must not understand the--" Tamor began.

She corrected him. "I know that everyone at the council serves at the leisure of their government. Are you indicating you do not?"

"No!"

"Then, you knew I would inquire and had already determined a response?" T'Pol asked.

The Andorian sneered.

"Perhaps _you _don't want to trade?" she asked.

"You're out of line, Vulcan!" Tamor shouted.

"Out of line I may be, but you have not answered my question." She turned to her aid, and silently hoped all the data he eagerly provided proved the Andorian's intent.

T'Pol stood and walked to a nearby kiosk. After programming a few simple commands, she saw Tamor himself making a deal with the head of the Orion syndicate.

"This was three days ago," T'Pol said.

Gral was to his feet with anger, and an immediate uproar came from everyone involved.

"Order! Order!" Gral shouted.

It didn't prevent the Andorian delegation to storm out of the meeting room. When the room settled down, T'Pol looked at Gral.

"I believe we are ready to discuss military options without fear of betrayal," she said.

The Tellarite, no friend of the Andorians, furrowed his brow. "Those blue demons have proven themselves loyal."

"I believe the Andorians' intentions are good. I wonder about Tamor's …."

Gral's elongated fingers pressed the comm. "Security. Hold Tamor for questioning."

A voice answered back, "We'll track him down, sir."

Gral then turned to his aid. "Inform General Krag that his diplomat may not be working for him."

His aid gave a brief nod. Before he walked out of the room, the pig-like man gave him one more instruction.

"Send in Archer."

Before the captain entered the hall, the president glanced at T'Pol. "This is your first day, Vulcan. And you've rooted out what seems like a spy. Maybe you'll do some good here afterall."

She raised an eyebrow.

"What happened with Tamor?" Archer asked.

The President fell silent. "We'd like you to provide us military options against the Orions."

He nodded and pulled up a few schematics showing starships flying in the region, tactical formations against the syndicate and the ability to guard perimeters.

"We need to show force. We need to catch the Orions trading illegally and commandeering vessels that don't belong to them," said Lera, a female Xindi delegate.

Gral shook his head. "We'd have to wait for weeks. Humans have a saying: strike while the iron is hot!"

T'Pol leaned in. "There must be a pattern to this piracy. If we were given time, we may be able to find it."

"I don't think we have much time," Staron said to T'Pol, loud enough for others to hear.

"Why do you say that?" asked Gral.

The Vulcan spoke louder. "Excuse me, President, but we do not have time. Tamor knows we will retaliate."

That remark seemed to sway the group, except T'Pol and the Xindi, and the vote was made to retaliate without much discussion, something that frustrated the Vulcan. Before she could speak up, Gral instructed Archer to present options only involved in that.

Although the admiral wasn't asked his opinion, T'Pol noticed he had the urge to weigh in.

"Tamor doesn't know when you'll attack. And the Orions are greedy; even if they're pressured to stop, they won't. You could attack then. We'd have plenty of time to--"

"Give us an attack option that we can carry out in the next twenty-four hours against the N'Gara."

The N'Gara was the ship that had been spotted committing acts against the Federation. Destroying it would send a message. Giving a small sigh, T'Pol's eyes wandered to Archer's. She sympathized, but as her previous commander would've said before: _that's politics._

Archer's hands flew against the panel. "One ship is close to the N'Gara – the Columbia. She has an array of torpedoes and phasers and has been retrofitted to travel at warp 6. It'll take her 8 hours to get into range."

Gral snorted. "Eight hours?"

"That's the closest any vessel can reach her … unless you're prepared to offer a Tellarite vessel."

The pig-like man scowled. "Will the Columbia be detected?"

Archer brought up a holographic map of the area. Pointing at a moon, he suggested this might be their cover until they're ready to target them.

"They'll be safe behind the moon's rotation for two hours. After that, they could be spotted – the sun's rays in that system are--"

Gral interrupted. "We'll send a note to the Orion Syndicate in ten hours then, letting them know the shots we fire on the Orion ship is because of their traitorous acts."

Archer furrowed his brow. "You're going to wait until _after_ the Columbia has attacked, right?"

"Yes, yes," Gral said.

T'Pol reinforced what Archer must've been feeling. "Letting them know before could mean death to the people aboard that vessel. It could mean Columbia's destruction."

The little pig grunted. "I know. I'm not going to put their lives in danger, Admiral."

Almost satisfied Archer nodded. "I'll alert Captain Hernandez right away."

Gral said, "Good."

Turning on his boot, Archer's eyes swept over to T'Pol's again and then he left the hall.

"I hope we haven't acted to rashly," T'Pol said.

"I know you'd rather we wait forever, Skinny. But not everyone lives to 200," Gral said.

A beeping interrupted the discussion and a security guard spoke up. "We have the ambassador."

Gral smiled and wrinkled his snout. "Ahhh. See? Today is a good day."

* * *

As Archer walked back to his office, his stomach flopped. Occasionally the man would have a reaction, a sinking feeling, something was going to go wrong. Silently, he decided that though he'd order Erika to head into the edge of Orion space, he'd think about alternatives in case the council changed their minds, which they were apt to do. 

When he reached his office, he heard his aid say a few words.

"Uh, oh – looks like one of those days?"

"Get me Captain Hernandez, Diane."

"Yes, sir."

Striding into his personal sanctuary, he gazed over the model ship he created as a boy and touched its nacelle, noting that the paint was chipping.

"She's on the line," Diane said through the intercom.

Archer sat in front of his monitor and typed in the few commands to bring her visage up on his screen.

"Erika," he said.

"Hey, Jon. I suppose this isn't a social call?"

He smiled. "No. You've kept abreast of everything with the Orions?"

She smiled. "Everything you've told me and Gardner's weekly reports of piracy and attacks on civilian vessels." For a second, she paused and a light caught in her eye. "Well, Jonathan Archer, I think you're about to order me to do something about it."

"I'm afraid so. Nothing fancy, just a shot to the N'Gara's engines. We'd like to minimize the collateral damage."

"I didn't know the Federation 'sent messages' like this."

He scoffed. "I guess they do."

"I'll ask my team to get on it."

"No questions?"

She sighed. "Permission to speak freely?"

"Go ahead."

"I don't like it. Sending in one vessel against an Orion battle cruiser--"

"You'll have the element of surprise. The N'Gara is slow and the weapon's yield is only 20 of what you have."

"I thought Jeffries said these people have 30."

"No. I talked with him about it this morning. Besides, you've been in worse scrapes before. This seems easy for you."

"Maybe that's the problem."

Exhaling, he leaned into the monitor. "Yeah. Between you and me, I'm looking into other alternatives."

"So, this came straight from Snowball?"

Archer laughed. The captain of the Columbia was a pistol and from time-to-time, mostly when she didn't agree with Gral's decisions, she called him that name: it was the lead pig in _Animal Farm._

"Yeah," he said.

"Go figure," she said. After a few seconds of dead air, she gave a smile. "I hear T'Pol took over for Soval. That true?"

He grinned. "You should be reading a release in the next few hours. Off the record, it's true."

"Feel good to know where she is?"

He blinked. "Feels …. Feels strange."

"Yeah, well. Like it or not, Admiral, she outranks you. Has to be a blow on the ego."

He didn't flinch, instead his grin broadened.

She chuckled. "Anything further, sir?"

"Use the moon as cover until 1100 hours. And … let me know when you've succeeded."

"Aye, sir."

He winked at his long-time friend.

"If I pull this off, I want you to take me to the 602 on my next shore leave."

"Just don't order the fancy stuff."

"Cheapskate."

With that he ended the transmission. Pressing the button of his intercom, he talked to his aid.

"Diane, could you order dinner for me here … it's going to be another long night."

"The party tonight--"

"I'll make an appearance."

She didn't answer, but he could tell what she was thinking.

"I'm not trying to get out of it, I promise."

"Must be something serious."

"It is."

"The meatloaf sandwich at Carlos'?"

"Sounds good. And could you--"

"I'll pick up a dress uniform for ya. I think you should show up by 2000 hours."

"All right." His lips tugged up at the silver device he was speaking into. "Thanks."

"Uh, huh."

Pulling up information on his screen, he tried to cover everything he could – intelligence reports, reports from the field, information about the Orions – to put his mind at ease.

* * *

T'Pol paced her office – something she normally wouldn't do. It _felt_ strange – her first day and already life and death decisions were being made and an ambassador was caught as a spy. Hardly the typical first day. Hardly the first day for someone who doubted she'd be able to be an ambassador. 

Her strolled into the room, hands behind his back, causing her to stop.

"Is this a typical day?" she asked.

"What?"

"Never mind."

Staron raised his brow. "You wanted to see me?"

"I understand Soval was more trusting, encouraging you to speak. However, I'm new to this position. I'd prefer if you were silent, until I asked for your assistance or input."

"Attacking the Orions was Gral's idea."

She crossed her arms. "You were against it originally."

"If one was going to attack the Orions waiting would not help."

Her eyes narrowed. "You're a Vulcan. Surak says that patience solves most problems."

"He also says that one can wait too long. It is the wise man who understands opportunity."

She'd read that passage; it was about Surak's quest for peace. This hardly seemed a fitting time to discuss it.

"Staron, I have no doubt you are an intelligent young man. You may _think_ you have all the answers, but you do not have the experience--"

"And you do? Soval was more than one hundred and sixty. You are --?"

"Old enough."

He was silent.

"Your quick work to find the root of the issue with the Andorians was quite effective."

"It was."

She wanted to frown. "It is why I would _like_ you to stay."

"Very well."

That wasn't quite the answer she was looking for. Although she didn't expect the Vulcan to apologize, for some reason she wanted him to show remorse or at least respect.

"However, I don't want to have this conversation with you again. You will be silent in the council chamber, or you won't come. You'll do as I ask, or you will look for work elsewhere. Need I be more plain?"

"No."

She crossed over to her desk and sat behind it. "Is there something you find distasteful about me?"

"Should I be silent now?"

Her lips flattened. "No, I would like your input."

"Your reputation is that you are human-like. That reputation has thus far proved accurate."

"Like a human?"

"Emotional. I can feel your emotions, your lack of control, even now. I do not respect that. I do not respect one who seemingly cannot complete the most trivial of tasks."

Without nodding, she rested her chin on her chest. "My control is none of your concern."

"Yes. That, Ambassador, is anger. You have felt fear and anxiety that you are making the wrong decisions. You have experienced anger when I speak. Controlling your emotions is what any Vulcan is expected to do."

Balling her fists to fight the rage, she barely whispered his next instructions. "Leave."

He turned, lifting his chin slightly in the air, and then walked out, closing the door behind him. The moment he did a wave of pain came over her, sweeping up her spine and making her extremities tingle.

_Perhaps if I meditate._

Gathering to her knees, despite being in the middle of her office, she attempted to concentrate. A white light, soft and gentle, clouded her senses. Floating, her limbs felt light and free. As she stared into the bliss, she heard an explosion – shattering steel and causing bone to crush - and noticed voices calling out. It was a cry … a moan. Someone had been left alone to die.

When that voice had quieted, she heard Archer's begging Trip to respond and she heard Phlox's explaining nothing more could be done.

That image wasn't her imagination, she'd been there to hear it herself. It's when she'd crumpled to the ground and felt hands around her shoulders to lift her up. It's why she'd ended up in Trip's room only a few hours later.

There was business yet undone.

Flinging her eyes open, she stared at the cream colored wall in front of her, hoping she could calm her heart.

Two hours had passed, and she needed to change into her gown and accept the attention over more than 200 people, most of which she didn't know. Taking a deep breath, she set about returning to the apartment.

* * *

A band played softly in the background. This one, much to her delight, was a jazz band, complete with trumpet, saxophone, drums and guitar. The music sounded like Django Reinhardt – the gypsy. 

She realized the admiral must've suggested it and wondered how many "strings he had to pull," as he would say, to get the group here in such short notice.

Silken banners in rich reds, brilliant greens and deep browns – colors that Vulcans cherished - were displayed in the ballroom in Vulcan which read: Welcome, Ambassador T'Pol of Vulcan. Vulcan food lined the tables, none of which smelled like its original counterpart. And diplomats, military and dignitary were milling around talking about politics.

_I dislike these events,_ she thought.

"Ambassador," Gardner said. "Pleased to see you. I understand you had a busy first day."

"Yes," she said.

His voice lowered. "Tamor is being held for questioning."

"I'm … relieved … that security was able to find him so quickly. Had he escaped --"

"You don't have to tell me. Listen, I know this might be jumping the gun, but … is the council going to recommend someone to replace Tamor?"

"We've contacted General Krag. He seemed … surprised and apologetic by the turn of events. It is his responsibility to recommend someone."

Matt nodded. "I have someone in mind."

"Who?"

"Before you say no, hear me out. He's been instrumental to Earth, offering his aid on more than one occasion."

Her eyes widened. "You're going to suggest Shran?"

"Actually it wasn't my suggestion, even if I agree with it."

"Admiral Archer?"

"Yes."

She shook her head. "I would think Admiral Archer would be the last one to suggest him."

"His name came up with President Gral as well."

"I find that … interesting."

"I'm going to make the recommendation to General Krag."

Her brows slid up. "You may _make _that recommendation, it doesn't mean he'll agree."

Matt shrugged. "Never hurts to try."

Archer finally appeared sipping a glass of iced tea, wearing his dress uniform as if it had been recently pressed – something, despite his usual neat appearance, he wasn't likely to do.

"Diane must've picked up your uniform," Matt said.

His eyes narrowed at the ribbing. "I've had a busy day today," Jon replied.

"Don't worry about Erika. The Columbia's in good hands."

After slapping Archer's back, Matt wandered away to talk with the Xindi ambassador most likely about the same topic. Archer's comment about Gardner once seemed more than correct: the admiral knew how to play politics and for a military commander, wasn't afraid to.

Archer nodded. "Did you find your way back to the apartment okay?"

"Yes, thank you." She read his face as he stared into his glass. "You are concerned, aren't you?"

In a hushed voice he agreed. "Something doesn't feel right. Why was security able to capture Tamor so quickly?"

"You think he wanted to be caught?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

He sighed. "I don't know."

"Did you find anything to indicate there was a security breech?"

"No."

"Then, what do you base your concern on?"

"My gut."

She tipped an eyebrow at the statement. Under normal circumstances, she'd chide his dependence on instinct. Now wasn't the time, and … she'd seen his "gut" right more than once.

After a few minutes of silence, she touched his arm.

"The band was your idea?"

He smiled and put his glass down on a nearby table. "You could've had a string quartet. I didn't think you'd appreciate it as much."

"You were correct."

His grin widened.

"I would say 'thank you,' but I understand you are also convincing others to recommend Shran join the Federation Council."

"I'm not, Matt is."

"You recommended him to Admiral Gardner."

"Yes, I did."

She stared at him.

"I know you don't like him, T'Pol, but think of it – he already knows Gral and actually gets along with him. Having you, Gral and Shran together --"

"Trip died protecting him."

Archer frowned. "No, Trip died protecting me."

The two watched each other for a few minutes. There was a quiet sorrow that sprung onto Archer's features. It reminded her that the pain of death … Trip's … wasn't hers alone to bear. No doubt the admiral blamed himself for the engineer's passage.

"Shran would balance the council. You may think he's hot headed, but--"

"You're right."

"About Shran?"

"Yes, he's ill tempered. Jonathan, what Andoria needs is someone with patience."

He shook his head. "Look at the council. You have Gral. You need someone with the same fire to stand against him sometimes. I know you didn't agree with his decision this afternoon. If Shran--"

T'Pol's eyes left his to watch a woman in a long blue gown burst through the doors. Archer's administrative assistant's perfect gray hair became disheveled and the taffeta fabric of her dress was bunched into one of her hands . Her eyes were wide and slightly teary.

"Admiral--"

"What's wrong?" he said.

The Vulcan wasn't sure he'd understood the urgency of the moment.

Suddenly, he grabbed Diane's shoulders. "Columbia?"

"The Potomac heard a distress call from Columbia at 2010. When she got there, the ship had … been destroyed."

"Are there any--?"

Diane shook her head, a few tears falling. "No, sir."

T'Pol watched a mix of emotions overcome her former captain, and for a moment he seemed too stunned to say anything.

"Is there any evidence who destroyed the vessel?" T'Pol asked.

"The Potomac said there were three weapon types – Orion torpedoes, Arali phasers-"

Aral. It was a name T'Pol had heard before; they were the aliens Trip had killed on Enterprise. A venom overcame her, welling deep within her stomach and threatening to burst.

If these are the same species …. 

Diane continued. "--And a vessel who's weapons signature they haven't been able to determine," Diane said.

"Are you sure the Columbia was destroyed?" Archer asked, his eyes glassy. His large hands had already left her shoulders and he grabbed the table near him to steady himself.

Diane looked up at him, her blue eyes piercing. "Yes, sir. I'm sorry. I wanted you to hear it from me first."

Archer nodded. His voice, a little hoarse, said something that should've leaped to mind before. "Is Captain Richards still on the line?"

"Yes, sir."

He nodded. "Tell him I'll be right there. And, you notified Matt?" he asked.

"Yes." T'Pol looked up, and could see the admiral walking out the door. His aid behind him privately began gathering the other admirals for a meeting.

"Sir, I hope--"

He shook his head. "I'm okay, Diane."

With that, his assistant rubbed her fingers against his arm and gave a look between a smile and a sob. He blinked and showed the same expression. Only marginally satisfied, she walked out, looking over her shoulder more than once to see if what he said was true. Archer began to follow her, when T'Pol wrapped her hand around Archer's bicep.

"Jonathan-"

"Ninety-six people aboard that vessel. Ninety-six. I made the wrong call."

"You were asked to follow those orders."

"Doesn't matter does it? I've got to call ninety-six families."

T'Pol bent her head, keeping her hand on him. "It does matter. And I know that one person in particular meant a great deal to you."

He looked into her eyes. For once, she saw sorrow – almost more than at Trip's funeral. His eyes were on the brink of tears and she wondered whether he'd let a single drop fall … allow him to feel the sway of grief. Just as she saw him about to cave in, he straightened.

"I'm tired of people dying," he whispered.

"This wasn't your fault," she said.

"The hell it wasn't," he said, walking away from her grasp and out the door.

There were times when the Vulcan knew human etiquette. Just this once – no matter what T'Pau would want -- she followed it, waiting for the news to be told to her officially before reacting. It would give Starfleet a slight advantage and provide her an opportunity to silently wish the families of those killed, well.

Staron finally spoke behind her nearly twenty minutes later. "Ambassador, there's been an attack."

Quietly and with composure, she asked for more details and heard fewer than she'd already known. With that, she walked back to her office, to contact Minister T'Pau with the most recent information and find out from a Vulcan perspective the next moves.

As soon as the minister was called up on the screen, the little Vulcan leader leaned into it, speaking only in Vulcan.

"We should have attacked the Orions _when _they committed another act of piracy."

T'Pol nodded. "I understand, Minister, but the council did not agree with me."

T'Pau's lips formed a thin line. "I thought Starfleet would agree."

"They did."

T'Pau's eyes darted to the right and then to the left. "Is this channel secure?"

T'Pol tapped a few buttons and nodded. "Yes."

"I heard of the attack already."

The ambassador wasn't surprised. Vulcan intelligence was faster and more vast than nearly anyone's, despite having been mostly disbanded after the rule of Minister V'Las.

T'Pau said, "You mentioned there are two known enemies – the Orions and the Arali."

"Yes."

"There is another."

"Who?"

"There is something you should know about our distant brothers, T'Pol. The ones that left us during the Awakening. There is something you will learn, that you must never reveal to anyone. We believe the third attackers to be Romulans. They are our brothers."

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

T'Pol stared at the leader of Vulcan, a woman draped in red silks with her black hair tied up. The suns of her planet were setting, almost illuminating T'Pau as though she had a golden halo surrounding her.

"The Romulans are our brothers?" T'Pol asked.

T'Pau leaned forward. "You have read the Kir'Shara?"

"I have … at least what's already been translated."

The leader poked an eyebrow into the air. "Surak writes about those who could not live without emotion; people who ravaged our planet with war."

T'Pol spoke quietly. "I believed they were Vulcan dissenters. And … there has always been speculation that they perished."

The minister agreed. "There has been speculation, but little proof. These people are Vulcans … Vulcans who left our planet and sought another - Romulus."

"It does not mention that in the Kir'Shara."

"No, it does not. However, that is what we have learned from Minister V'Las. _He _is a Romulan."

Surprise betrayed T'Pol's face as she dropped her jaw. "How can you be certain?"

"He told us."

"He is an emotional man; he could've been lying."

T'Pau sat back in her chair, and her eyes darkened. "We did not ask him. His thoughts … they revealed his identity."

The news was almost too difficult for T'Pol to accept. "You've known about this for some time?"

"Yes."

"Do they look like us?" T'Pol asked. "Was V'Las in disguise?"

"Unknown. Scans have shown their internal organs do not completely match ours, although the differences are minute; it may be difficult for the untrained eye to distinguish."

As T'Pol's jaw dropped, the woman continued. "I am unsure about their external features. However, it is probably that over the thousands of years, their bodies may have adapted to Romulus even their facial structure."

T'Pol shook her head, her throat closing as if it couldn't be true. "You saw no evidence of facial surgery?"

"No."

The two women looked at each other, T'Pau's eyes grew cold and unyielding.

"Now you understand the need to be clandestine," the minister said.

"You believe there are more who have infiltrated our government?" T'Pol asked.

"Yes. To what extent, I am uncertain. I have been rooting them out for some time."

"How will you determine who you can trust?" T'Pol asked.

"That, Ambassador, is an excellent question. The ring of those I can rely on is quite small – you, Minister Soval, Minister Kovak and two scientists who I knew from the Forge."

T'Pol was relieved to have the minister's trust, although she wasn't sure she'd earned it.

"Have you discovered what they want?" T'Pol asked.

The minister shook her head. "No. However, in the Kir'Shara, Surak writes of the Great War and a man named Tolak. Tolak's final words suggested 'his people' would return to conquer Vulcan. One might hypothesize, without further data, that is their objective."

"You melded with V'Las …?" T'Pol suggested that he should've given them the information they needed through that meld.

"I did. V'Las believed the goal to be a war between us, the Telarites and the Andorians."

T'Pol remembered the incident well; V'Las seemed determined to go to war with the Andorians. If they did, the Telarites would've joined tentative forces with the Vulcans, leaving room for further conflict. The Romulans must've, she deduced, been behind the marauder they destroyed several years ago – the one where Trip suffered radiation sickness; perhaps Archer was right about the Romulans attempts to destabilize the region.

T'Pau said, "And since there have been further attempts from the Romulans, one might come to the conclusion they have another objective in mind. For example, conquering Vulcan."

"Then why did they destroy the Columbia?"

"All of the threads to their deception, and their reasoning behind it, are not yet known to us."

T'Pol nodded gravely.

"You understand why I tell you this now?"

She'd been wondering that.

"I do not wish to deceive the Federation or Starfleet. However, I would like to prolong the truth as long as possible. At least until Vulcan has rooted out our … _brothers_ … and determined the cause behind their infiltration."

"An omission of the truth is a lie," T'Pol said, quoting Surak.

"You need not omit the truth, only be silent."

"Minister--"

Using the ancient Vulcan tongue, T'Pau spoke to her. Although the woman sounded stoic, her voice shook the silence around her.

"Thee are Vulcan. Thee heart is Vulcan."

T'Pol understood those words; it was a calling … a chant used before Kal'i'far to prompt the one in Pon'Farr into action. Almost as if sparked by its power, her heart began to beat more quickly.

The ambassador said, "There are some we can trust. They may be able to assist us. And … for all we know the Romulans may have infiltrated more than simply Vulcan."

T'Pau stared at the monitor, her eyes hot with flame as she changed back to the current language.

"No, V'Las' mind was clear on that point."

"Minister, he may not know."

"This is a Vulcan matter."

"I know someone we can turn to … someone we can trust," T'Pol said. "He's helped us before."

"_This_ is not the same. If Starfleet learned of this infiltration, what do you think would happen?"

"They would help us discover a method to root out the Romulans."

"Our scientists are more advanced. The more people are involved, the easier it becomes for the truth in its entirety to be revealed."

"Surak says that secrets are like whispers in a cave – they echo. If _we_ control how the Federation and Starfleet learn about this--"

"No."

"Minister--"

"No. You are _our _ambassador. You _will _do as I say, T'Pol. You will do so because you are Vulcan … because I am your appointed leader … and I have given you a command. You will do this because it is logical and because there is no other recourse. You will do this because you know if you do not, our entire society will collapse."

T'Pol was silent.

"We do not know enough about this to tell others. Keeping this to ourselves is the only logical course of action."

T'Pol didn't disagree verbally, although she didn't necessarily think T'Pau's course was the right action. Then again, she wasn't sure telling the Federation and Starfleet would help. The minister was right about a few things – if anyone on Vulcan found out, it would be devastating to the planet. Their society was still interpreting the words of the Kir'Shara. Priests only now were beginning to go back to the old ways – using mind melds as a way to heal, collecting katras and storing them in vessels, and performing rituals in the ancient tongue; and many of them were hesitant or rejected such practices. The scientific community was only beginning to understand the complexities of the Vulcan mind as they began to research, and debate, telepathy. People representing schools and temples were still arguing whether melding was a practice they should teach or whether they should leave it up to families. It was even still abhorred by some, those born into elite families.

Vulcan society was already thrown on its ear; change was difficult for her planet's people. This additional blow could cause further uproar in a time they needed, craved (even if the Vulcans would never use a word like this) unity and stability.

_If _they introduced this as well, people would grow mistrustful of everyone; it would introduce an emotion that Vulcans were unaware of: fear. Her people would grow mistrustful, looking for outsiders wherever they turned. There may be a backlash to exit the Federation, which some may consider the reason behind the Romulan invasion.

Anyone who was different would be automatically suspect, even if there were no initial proof; that was the essence of what fear did … even to the most rational of people.

Anyone who showed any emotion would be treated as a Romulan, persecuted even if he or she was Vulcan.

It was a subject T'Pol could relate to intimately. She timidly nodded her head in obedience.

T'Pau leaned in, breaking the silence. "When we know more … when we know the extent and the objective, we will tell them, but not until then."

"Yes, minister."

"I was wise to trust you, T'Pol." The Vulcan raised her hand and split her fingers into a "v." "Peace and long life."

"I hope that is true for us all. Live long and prosper, T'Pau."

With that, the communication ended. T'Pol blew out a long breath and leaned back in her chair staring at the blackened screen on the monitor. She'd have to meditate on this, if she could, to understand the ramifications. Although she would not betray her word, perhaps she could come up with various alternatives.

After noticing the clock indicated it was already past 2200 hours, she gathered up her things and headed to Archer's office. When she arrived, the oak door was closed – though she could hear his voice inside.

_He would never say this, but he could probably use a friend. _

So, she lowered herself into a chair next to his door and waited as she ruminated over the information just revealed to her.

* * *

Archer sat in front of his terminal and wearily brought up Captain Richards' face – a forty year old man with graying temples and dark brown eyes. The guy had been in the Academy directly after he and Erika graduated. At the time, he was a pesky kid who always asked questions and tried to fit in with the upperclassman. It was difficult sometimes to see him as a capable commander, a leader. But, the guy had already proven himself more than a few times and had earned himself a sterling reputation. 

A grimace spread across his lips and he spoke with a quiet voice. "Admiral, I'm sorry I have bad news."

"My assistant told me, Chris."

The two were quiet until Archer finally prompted him. "I hear you've already determined who fired on the Columbia?"

He nodded. "Yes, sir. We traced the weapon's fire to the Orions and the Arali. Lt. Mayweather indicated you were aware of the Arali."

Archer leaned on the armrest of his chair and crossed his legs. Hell yeah he was aware of the aliens who were responsible for Trip's death.

"Yes," he said.

Richards continued. "There was another weapon that was difficult to determine. We checked the database and it matches the signature from two vessels you destroyed when you were captain … during the first interspecies campaign."

Archer furrowed his brow. "The marauders?"

"Yes, sir. Travis said you thought those ships belonged to the Romulans."

"I did, but we could never substantiate that. No hard evidence."

"I sent some samples to Starfleet. I'm hoping maybe they can give us a better analysis … maybe they'll prove you right."

"I'll talk with the tactical division there. I'd … also like Section 31 to review it."

"Sir?"

Section 31, the highly secret branch of Starfleet, was never discussed among officers and even among crewmen it was whispered. The mystery and austerity behind the organization was feared and revered simultaneously; they were extreme, but knew the secrets of the universe.

Archer responded. "I can understand your reservation, but …. Listen, if the Orions, Arali and Romulans are working together, there could be more at stake than just the Columbia or a few freighters."

"Agreed."

"I know this tough on morale. How's your crew holding up?" Archer asked. He didn't ask Chris personally, but hoped the man would gather he meant him specifically.

"We've known Erika a long time. What twenty five years?"

Archer gave a sad smile. "Longer than that."

"I remember when I made captain, she bought me a drink at the 602 and told me that 'Starfleet was promoting anyone these days.'" The man laughed and then quieted. "I talked with her just two days ago."

Archer swallowed deeply. Although his romantic interest in the woman had long vanished, she was his friend and knowing that she died in vain nagged at his soul; it wounded him.

"Admiral, let me say this: we're committed to sticking around as long as we need to in order to figure out exactly what happened, and if necessary rain hell on those that did this."

"I hope we don't need to."

"Me, too, sir."

"Thanks, Captain." Archer said. "I'll contact you first thing tomorrow. Keep up the good work."

"Thank you."

The screen faded to black and Archer found himself looking down at his lap for a few minutes before contacting the families of the Columbia. Each conversation was painful, but necessary. He had the privilege of having a few serve on Enterprise, so was able to comment on them in particular. He'd heard a few good things about a few, so he managed to mention that. When it came to contacting Mrs. Hernandez, a woman he'd met more than once, his stomach turned summersaults and his skin went cold.

"Mrs. Hernandez," Archer said. He'd called up the image of the woman on the other end. She looked almost exactly like her daughter except with short fluffy gray hair. Her eyes were deep brown and her mouth was turned down, as if she knew what he was about to deliver.

"Jon, my daughter?"

He licked his lips, but looked the woman in the eye; she deserved that much … if not more.

"Erika died in the line of duty tonight while protecting Earth against--"

The Latina woman covered her face in her hands and wept.

Almost as if trying to console her, Archer rambled on, his voice hoarse. "I'm sorry for your loss, ma'am. Erika was a model captain – the kind of woman everyone at Starfleet respects and admires."

The woman didn't acknowledge the words or even look up.

"Your daughter was special. She meant a great deal--"

The screen went black, her mother had cut it off, and Archer sighed deeply. He should've told her in person.

_No, I shouldn't have asked Erika to take Columbia to fire at the Orion vessel._

Almost immediately after, Matt Gardner contacted him, insisting it was "important to get some sleep" and "they could brief the Federation on this in the morning," but Jon knew he wouldn't be able to rest his head or close his eyes.

After a couple more hours, Archer decided to head home. Picking up his briefcase and stuffing a PADD and a few other items into it he opened the door. On the other end, waiting with her hands folded neatly into her lap, was T'Pol.

"How long have you been here?" he asked.

"Not long."

For some reason, he doubted her words. "Why are you waiting here?"

"I wanted to ride home with you, Jonathan."

Before he could speak, she blinked at him and tilted her head to the side ever so slightly. "It's been a long day. And I wanted your company."

Walking slightly behind her, he answered her. "You didn't have to wait for me."

"I know."

"Were you checking up on me?"

"I would never do so. I know how you feel about that."

"Well, if you were … I'm okay."

"I understand that."

"I mean it."

"I know."

"It's just …."

"I know. Are you ready?"

He nodded grimly. "Yeah."

* * *

A long time ago, while working for the admiral, T'Pol had learned to allow the man to vent. It was exactly was he was doing now. As she shuttled the car back to his apartment, what started as a comment – why the council couldn't wait a few days - grew into a loud monologue, including cursing.

She glanced over to her right, where Archer was sitting, to see him red faced and his hands waving emphatically in the air. He was in the midst of a full bellow after having worked himself up.

"God damnit! Why didn't they just wait for one day? We know the Orions. We know what their modus operandi is. We've encountered them more than a few times. I mean, this is exactly why I was promoted and was suggested to debrief the council. Why couldn't they listen!"

He didn't wait for a response, and she was well aware the question was rhetorical. So he continued, answering himself.

"God, T'Pol, without the Vulcans, the Council would be an utter disaster. Did you notice that Neville … you know the supposed ambassador representing Earth … didn't speak up once? Not once!"

Sometimes T'Pol understood that when humans yelled it was to blow off steam. She also realized that humans sometimes yelled as if they were railing against themselves. As she listened to Archer grumble and rant about Federation politics, how he felt about the members and why the Columbia was sent in at all, she understood that at the core of the issue was he felt responsible for the ship's destruction.

As she parked the vehicle in the lot assigned to him, she climbed out.

"The Orions were bound to attack another freighter! They've been attacking one nearly every week! If we studied the patterns, maybe we could see some sort of sense. Hell, if Gral was so damned interested in the attack, we could even bait them into doing it!"

The two walked into the elevator and she pushed the button for his floor as he continued.

"I could've come up with something, _something_, in two days that would've appeased them. But, they couldn't even wait one damned day!"

When the elevator came to a halt, she walked down the corridor to his apartment and entered the code she'd been given as the man behind her continued to fume. He didn't stop even as he put down his briefcase and took off his coat, hanging it on the rack.

"Jesus! Politicians! I'll never understand it. Thirteen people on the Council and only two agree that waiting is the right thing to do. It seemed like a choice even an idiot would make! Why couldn't they have waited!"

Pushing a button on the inside, she closed the door behind her and finally took his arm. When he looked down at her, the expression on his face was pained and his breathing – which was heavy – began to slow. Finally, he turned away.

"Why didn't I fight harder, T'Pol?" he asked. "Why didn't I do what I knew was right?"

_That _was the very issue she'd been waiting for him to express.

"Why do you blame yourself?" she asked.

"I gave the order that killed more than ninety people."

"You relayed the order by the request of the Council. I share your blame."

"You spoke up against Gral's recommendation."

"As did you." The Vulcan paused and released her grip on the man. "I know she was a personal friend."

His expression didn't change, and he didn't confirm or deny the remark.

"Your assistant told me you'd known her since the Academy."

He took a long, steady breath. "Yeah."

T'Pol drew her robes around her and sat down, hoping he would do the same. With the slightest hint of disappointment, she noted he crossed over to the kitchen and poured himself a shot of whiskey.

"I also understand that she reported to you," T'Pol said.

She heard the glass behind her smack against the wooden counter. "That's right."

"I didn't know her well, but her reputation was one as a formidable captain."

He cleared his throat. "First woman to receive that rank."

T'Pol turned her head and watched as he mused.

"Starfleet considered changing the rules so that the physical tests would match a woman's stamina and strength. Pretty much everyone was in agreement, except Erika. I remember survival training with her; we had to cross a desert in two days – walking and running every day with only one canteen of water. She was the second person to cross the finish line and was three hours before me."

She raised an eyebrow.

"As soon as she finished, an ambulance took her because she was suffering from heat exhaustion." After giving an ironic chuckle, he swallowed his drink. "Despite a fever, she still managed to beat my time."

"You said she became a captain three years after you?" she asked.

"Yeah. She was a year younger and had a tendency to overcompensate for being a woman. I may've finished behind her, but I was in good shape."

The two stared at each other until Archer watched his lap.

"You know … she was always trying to prove she was tough enough. At least at Starfleet."

The remark caused her to wonder the nature of their relationship. She knew the two had been close, but didn't think they were romantically involved.

"Want anything?" he asked.

She shook her head, and after pouring himself another belt, he sat down next to the Vulcan. Nursing his drink, he started to open up a little. He gave a small smirk and then scratched his head.

"We had a lot of classes in the Academy together and managed to strike up a decent friendship. I think if I wasn't interested in someone else at the time …. It wasn't until four years later when we were both serving on the NX project that we seemed to strike up something."

"You two were … involved?"

Archer looked at her. "For a couple of years – on and off. I don't even remember exactly how it all started in the first place. I guess we were both lonely and were convenient. All I know is I was jealous of an intern, and the next day I made her breakfast."

She raised both eyebrows; the story sounded somewhat familiar. "Only two years?"

"I got a promotion. Instead of working with me occasionally, recording flight times, she was on my team."

"You didn't want to have a relationship with someone who reported to?"

The man leaned back on the couch. "I don't think we would've called ourselves in a relationship. And when it ended, it didn't seem to upset either of us. It seemed easy for us to go back to being friends. Maybe what made it easier is we both found someone else."

_Human relationships are interesting. The one he spoke of reminded her of what happened with Trip._

"She helped me a lot thought. Somehow she'd managed to enter my life just when I needed her."

He looked into his glass and his lips turned down. "I failed her, T'Pol."

"You didn't."

"The one time she needed me, and I wasn't there," he said, hoarsely.

T'Pol's hand snaked around his own. As it did, she could see him trying to fight back remorse.

"I wasn't there for Trip either. I should've been. He would've been there for me," Archer said.

She grew quiet and released his hand.

"When the Arali came, I thought they were bluffing. I was cocky … too cocky." He paused. "Trip was right; they had every intention of killing me and anyone on Enterprise who interfered. He tried to tell me, but I wouldn't listen. He … he thought I was too important. He thought his own life was less valuable."

T'Pol felt herself frown.

"So, he gave up his own life," Archer said.

That's when T'Pol witnessed something she hadn't ever seen before, not even in the most dire of circumstances on Enterprise. His voice had sometimes quivered and there were times she could see his eyes become glassy. But never, ever, had she seen tears stream down his face. Embarrassed of his own emotion, he looked down, as if he could hide his feelings. She something she thought he needed; wrapping her arms around his broad shoulders, she pressed him to her and gave him a hug.

"Jonathan, you are many things, but you're not omnipotent," she whispered in his ear. "No matter how much you _think _you are."

After a few seconds she released him and his eyes looked both sorrowful. Ducking away from her gaze, he spread his fingers through his hair and exhaled.

"You're a good friend, T'Pol."

"You would do the same for me."

It made his lips twitch almost into a smile. Pushing his lean body up, he wearily walked to his bedroom and threw a few more words over his shoulder.

"I need a little time to be alone," he said.

"I understand." As he was about to shut the bedroom door, she spoke up. "I know Trip would've done anything to protect you. Just as I know you protected him many times before. Friends do that for each other. You've done it for me."

Archer turned around and leaned on the bedroom door's frame. "And you've done so for me."

She spoke again. "I know it's in your nature to blame yourself and brood over events as if they were your mistakes--"

She could see him about to interrupt, so she continued. "However, that isn't true for Erika, nor was it with Trip."

He swallowed and looked down at the ground.

"You can hold onto people you care about, and move on at the same time," she said, quoting something he once told her. "Apparently, there's nothing wrong with that."

Giving the very smallest of smiles, he kicked at the carpet underneath his feet. "Ironic," he said. "I think I said the same thing to you a few nights ago."

"You did. At the time I thought it was … perceptive."

He nodded. "Thanks."

Her eyes twinkled. "You're welcome."

When the bedroom door closed, T'Pol stared at it and then walked over to the kitchen to view the San Francisco skyline. There was too much to process in the last twenty-four hours. Although Vulcan, she'd always felt she was more flexible and willing to change. For a moment, she longed for the time when life was full of stability and clear answers: black and white. Ever since joining Enterprise, she hardly saw a solution to a problem that seemed easy or clear-cut. For a second, she longed for the days before she admitted she _felt_ … before she knew what emotion was and had it ruminate in her brain and scurry around her stomach.

"There is much to meditate on," she said to herself. _I only hope I can._


	7. Chapter 7

When Archer arrived at his desk the next morning, his assistant Lt. Diane Travers greeted him and then poked her glasses down her nose to shoot her piercing eyes at him.

"You didn't get any sleep last night, did you?" she asked.

It was an accusation, but one that held merit and concern. He hadn't. And he guessed, by the tartness of her response, she hadn't gotten much sleep either. Rather than confirm or deny it, he let the comment go.

"Has Richards called yet?" he asked.

"Yes. He said they found the black box."

"Get him on the line."

Archer put his briefcase on one of the blue chairs in his office and dug into it to retrieve a PADD; it was the one he'd been using to look at the faces of Columbia's crew all night. After sitting down at his desk, his assistant called out via the intercom.

"Sir, he's there."

"Thanks," he said. Then punching a few buttons Captain Chris Richards of the Potomac displayed on his viewer. Dark circles hung under his eyes and he looked a little worn.

"Admiral, you'll be pleased to hear we recovered the box."

"Good work, Chris. Sorry it kept you up all night."

"Part of the job." He leaned over. "I started sending the datastream of the recording. Our communications officer says it should take about three hours to reach you."

"What's on it?"

"It's a tough one, sir. Apparently, three ships - an Orion battlecruiser, an Arali fighter and an unidentified craft - waited behind a moon circling Ceti Alpha II and then attacked the Columbia."

Archer's eyes grew wide and his jaw tensed.

"What's wrong?" Chris asked.

"It's what I was afraid of. Columbia walked into a trap."

"Sir?"

Archer sighed. "Columbia's instructions were to wait behind the moon circling Ceti Alpha II and take the N'Gara's, the Orion battlecruiser, weapons offline. No one knew about this order except the Federation Council, Erika and the brass at Starfleet."

Although Richards was a captain, Jon didn't think telling him more was appropriate; for example, he decided not to include they thought they uncovered a traitor yesterday and the two events may be connected.

Richards said, "Admiral, when you hear that recording …. Like I said, it's a tough one."

"Thanks for the warning."

Chris nodded.

Archer said, "I'll keep you posted."

The screen faded and Archer reflected on his upcoming job and the grim details involved.

Black boxes always contained two types of information – data recordings, like heading and speed, and voice recordings. It was part of his job to review both and give a summary to the Council. The data recording was never a problem; it was the voice recordings that was always hard to stomach … and this time would be worse. He'd have to hear Erika's last words. It would be something, he already knew, that would echo in his mind for days and years to come.

Contrary to popular opinion, last words were never – or hardly ever – sweet. They were never tokens of love, promises of everlasting friendship or even courageous silence … at least not on the voice recordings. The black box, he knew, would reveal terrified pleas, curses and gasps as the people on the ship dealt with the last moments of their lives.

Shaking himself from a gruesome trance, he decided to focus his energy on results … something that would help the crew of the Columbia. Leaning over his console, he pushed a few buttons, choosing a secure channel, and placed a call to an old friend – someone who he knew was assigned to review the weapons signature from the unidentified ship that attacked the Columbia.

A smiling man with brown hair and blue eyes appeared.

"Admiral," said Captain Reed with surprise.

Archer gave a warm grin back, noticing the new stripes at the collar of his uniform.

"I never congratulated you on your promotion, Malcolm. No one deserves to wear those bars more."

"Thank you. Just got the pips last night … before Ambassador T'Pol's party." His lips tugged down. "I was sorry to hear about the Columbia. They were a fine crew. Captain Hernandez was one of the best."

Archer nodded. "They were a fine crew, including Rand. How long did he serve under you?"

"Seven years. He was one of the volunteers who signed up before we went into the Expanse." Malcolm bent his head forward, placing it on his chest. "He was a brave fellow. I recommended him for the promotion that got him assigned there."

"I'm sorry."

"Yeah. So am I."

Both men were silent for a moment.

"I'm glad to be the one assigned to find out the unidentified weapons signature. It helps to feel I can help out."

Archer was pleased too; if anyone was going to determine exactly who this mystery ship was, it was Malcolm Reed.

"That's why you're calling, isn't it?" Reed asked.

He nodded. "One of the reasons, yes."

"I've asked my team to start running tests. Preliminary data shows that Captain Richards was right; the firing mechanism is exactly like the one we encountered from the marauders about seven years ago."

"Anything else?"

"I have a hunch ….. I'm running the signature against other weapons fire from the Enterprise's database."

"Good."

Reed hunched over. "You placed a call to Harris, didn't you?"

Harris was in charge of Section 31, the group that handled the most clandestine of affairs and knew the dirt on nearly everything in the galaxy. Archer didn't like Harris – the guy enjoyed his job too much, but the admiral knew that kind of expertise is what he needed.

"Not yet," Archer said.

"You're going to, I take it?"

Archer was silent.

Malcolm exhaled slowly. "You think it's wise?"

"No, I'm not sure it is."

"I don't either."

Archer waited for a few seconds and then changed the subject.

"Listen, I'm getting Columbia's black box. I'll send you the data as soon as it comes in. Who knows, it may help."

"Thank you, sir."

The Brit paused and Archer waved two fingers in the air. "Spit it out, Malcolm."

"Ambassador Tamor."

"What about him?"

"Sir, I know what happened."

Archer frowned; if someone leaked the information, they had bigger problems. "How'd you find out?"

"I was in the hallway at Starfleet yesterday when security took him. And by the looks of things, he wasn't just taken for questioning. It seemed as though the Council and Starfleet think he's a spy."

"You have a point, Mister Reed?"

"Are we quite certain Tamor is an Andorian?"

Archer raised his brows.

Malcolm continued, "I've been thinking … what would the Andorians have to gain from this?"

"You think he's not an Andorian?"

"I'm not sure. I think we should have someone from Starfleet medical confirm it. At least, it wouldn't hurt."

"I'll talk with Phlox."

Malcolm nodded. "Thank you."

Archer stared at the monitor. "Captain, I'm going to make a recommendation to Admiral Gardner that you're the lead for Columbia's and Tamor's investigation."

The Brit smiled. "Sir, it would be an honor."

"Would for me, too," Archer said with an equal grin. After a few seconds of mutual appreciation, he added a few words. "I'd like you to keep everything we discussed confidential."

"Of course."

"I know you would."

Archer placed his elbow on his armrest and crossed his legs as the screen faded to black. Immediately, he pressed the button for the intercom and got his assistant.

"Diane, contact Dr. Phlox and then Admiral Gardner. I'd like to talk with them."

* * *

Starfleet medical had advanced significantly since the day he saw Klang, a Klingon who was shot in Broken Bow, Oklahoma, spread out on the table with feeding tubes stuffed down his esophagus. Phlox had turned the place into a larger version of the facilities at Sickbay on Enterprise.

Instead of a sickly white covering everything, the room felt somehow homier with beiges. The air didn't wreak of bleach; the odor that clung to the air was like lemons. And there wasn't the quiet drone of various machines chugging to keep the Klingon alive; instead tiny critters of almost every variety were in cages and glass containers, constantly chirping.

Archer walked by one, looking in to see what species it was, when it rattled violently. The admiral jumped.

"Sorry, it's almost feeding time," Phlox said. "This one gets impatient."

A furrow spread across his brow.

"It's good to see you, Admiral. Although, I notice you're looking a little thin. Aren't you following the diet I sent to you."

He'd sent it not only to him, but to his assistant … which made life hell for him.

"I got it. I've been a kinda busy lately."

The doctor's lips fell from his famously oversized grin. "I'm sorry to hear about the Columbia."

"Me, too."

The two were silent for a moment. As if the doctor knew it was best to move on, he continued.

"Your assistant said you needed me for something?"

Archer nodded. "Are we alone?"

"Yes."

Archer checked the room anyway as the Denobulan, puzzled, followed him. After he confirmed the area was clear, he continued.

"I can't give you a lot of details, but … I'd like you to determine the species of someone we have in security."

"Who is it?"

"I can't answer that."

"Oh?"

"Classified. In fact, I can't tell you any more about him."

"I see. When would you like me to scan him?"

"Today, if possible."

"I'm giving a medical demonstration in fifteen minutes. I could cancel--"

"Canceling it would raise suspicion," Archer said, shaking his head.

Phlox must've seen his disappointment. "I have an assistant who--"

"No, Doc. I need someone I can trust."

"This young man is--"

"I need you."

Phlox raised both eyebrows and then a small smile started to spread over his lips. "Of course."

Archer couldn't help but smile back. "Thank you."

"1000 hours tomorrow?" Phlox asked.

Archer nodded. "Contact me using a secure channel as soon as you find out."

The Denobulan was about to return to his work, but Archer noticed the doctor waited.

"You have something else?"

"Yes."

Phlox folded his hands together and drew them across his stomach to wait.

"Doc, I'd like you to scan various members of the Council when I ask them questions."

"For what purpose."

Archer hesitated, and the doctor shook his head. "Am I not supposed to ask questions about this either."

The human smiled. "It'd help."

Phlox nodded, looking down at the floor and Archer added a few words. "Thanks. You don't know how much I appreciate it."

Standing on the balls of his feet, he looked at the physician – the guy was just as jolly and he'd always been. The two didn't get to talk often; their visits usually included a review of his health, suggestions about what to eat … and especially what not to and general chitchat. It wasn't like the old days, where the two would worry about the crew together and meanwhile discuss other things.

"Is there something further, Admiral?"

"Yeah, actually. How are the wives and kids?" the man asked.

Phlox's smile overtook his entire face. "Did I tell you my eldest had a girl?"

"Have any pictures?" Archer asked.

The Denobulan waddled to his desk, his grin already overextending his face.

* * *

T'Pol spent the morning reviewing notes sent to her, wishing her luck in her new position. Although she thought the sentiments were kind, and somewhat illogical since luck did not exist, after four hours, it grew tiresome; she didn't know the majority of the people who'd contacted her anyway and surmised it was something politicians did to curry favor. 

_They obviously do not understand Vulcans._

As she was about to relegate the task to her aid, Staron, she spied a note of congratulations from someone she hadn't expected: Mr. and Mrs. Charles Tucker II. Opening it quickly, she stared at it.

_ T'Pol, _

_ Congratulations on your appointment. Trip would've been real proud. _

_ We know we are. _

_ All the best, _

_ Mayzie and Chuck_

She read it once, and then read it thrice more. The words have been written, rather than typed, most likely by Mrs. Tucker mostly because the penmanship had too many curves and frills to be owned by a man. They'd included a picture, along with the note, of the two of them with her – a day before the funeral when they'd insisted taking her to lunch. Despite the tragic events that brought them together, the two smiled, huddling near her; Mr. Tucker draped his arm over her shoulder and Mrs. Tucker's hand was on her waist.

Carefully saving it to a nearby PADD, her eyes and then fingers lingered over it. Right away, she jotted down that this – of her all congratulations – would be the first she'd return.

"Your meeting is in approximately ten minutes, Ambassador," Staron said.

She'd been so engrossed in the letter, she hadn't realized he was there or that another hour had passed.

Nodding, she gathered her cloak and followed Staron down the long hall to the Council room.

* * *

Rather than sitting at the large oval table, she noticed everyone milling about discussing the events of last night: Columbia's destruction. Silently she shook her head and came to the conclusion today would be a long day.

It wasn't just the Columbia, the arduousness resulted from: her lack of sleep, her inability to meditate again last night, a day discussing further actions against the Orions and now Arali … and the idea she would have to be silent about the third attacker – the Romulans.

Because T'Pol was never one to participate in idle gossip, she sat down. Her eyes scanned the room. Thirteen members were supposed to be there. All were present, save one: Tamor. Only yesterday she revealed evidence that discovered him as a spy.

Among the thirteen was the president – Gral, voted in after Soval's retirement, a Tellarite. The little man was bulky, cranky and stubborn. He was an intriguing, and yet T'Pol believed poor choice, to lead. Although he had leadership qualities – tasking those under him to follow in his direction – he wasn't easily swayed and insisted on his way.

_Then again, Soval created a void when he left the Council. It is no wonder we are floundering._

Then there was Neville Simons -- a lanky man with thinning brown hair and a wiry build who represented Earth. She'd yet to hear from him, and found it somewhat surprising he would be the Prime Minister's choice to represent his people; he hadn't spoken up on Earth's behalf since her time in office. He hadn't even introduced himself. In fact, she noticed he sat quietly in the darkest corner of the table fiddling with his glasses for the majority of the two days. It didn't help she knew Jonathan's thoughts on the man: he'd called the ambassador a "mouse with no common sense."

Merah represented the Veral, a people with brown medusa-like hair and skin. Despite their gnarled skin, T'Pol'd learned these people were extremely kind … if not meek and quiet. She'd met the ambassador several years ago … ironically the day that she'd learned of her daughter – Elizabeth. The woman commanded respect at least, and T'Pol discovered that perhaps she was an instant ally.

There was a Denobulan: Xemax. Most of her species was boisterous and outgoing, but she seemed more tempered … possibly the reason she was chosen for this assignment. Her wide blue eyes held the same twinkle as Phlox, something T'Pol had determined was a good sign. And, she kept the same wide smile plastered on her face, even when the grimmest information was discussed – like shooting at the Orions.

Sera, a Xindi primate, was a wise woman. She had brown spiky hair and a warmth that enveloped her. When she spoke, her words were precise and resonated with nearly every member in their beauty and exactness. In many ways this woman reminded T'Pol of Degra – a noble being whose path ahead was long and admirable.

From the S'Ahad, a nomad people who lived on three planets, was a large, stout man named Darag. He had squinting amber eyes and a long white beard that dipped down to his belly. The most social of the members, his deep laugh filled the hall from time-to-time as if he was constantly jolly. Even thought T'Pol was a Vulcan, a species that abhorred emotion, she found this comforting. The only thing that disturbed her was Darag's people and the Tellarites had been allies for years, and when Gral voted a certain way, Darag would vote the same.

The Rigelians had their own ambassador – Bagdol. He was young and new to the Council, which meant he was fearful of speaking up. The man was a light green with a tattoo across the majority of his face – spanning from his forehead to his chin – and long black hair that had been braided into dreads and adorned with elaborate beads. His garments shimmered in iridescent purples that sparkled even under the low lighting of the hall. The impression T'Pol had of him, even though the people of Rigel frequently acted as criminally as the Orions, was that he was a good man who needed more experience before coming here to represent his people. She believed he had to have been royalty to receive such an honor at such an age.

There were many she didn't know or have an impression of including Demvar, a handsome man Coridan, an older man named Kator of the Siryn, a young woman named Trin of the Brillian and Nezfar of the Yalans.

Tamor, a man that Archer seemed to know intimately, would've added to thirteen. And apparently the General was livid at the discovery of his aid for two reasons: first, that _his _ambassador would've been accused of being a spy and second, the lack of representation from Andoria.

T'Pol's eyes finally looked up when Gral waddled in and stroked his enormous belly; as he climbed into his chair that seemed a size to long, the room quieted.

"The Columbia was destroyed last night."

The uproar in the room was minimal.

"Order!" the little Tellarite shouted at the small hubbub. "We know the Orion and the Arali are behind this treachery."

"Rumor has it that a third weapon signature was found," Sera said. "Do we know who it is?"

Gral grunted. "It's no rumor. Starfleet is investigating it."

T'Pol bent her head and remained silent. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Staron peak his brow in interest at her motion.

"I have a question," Bagdol said. His dreads shook behind him as he lifted his finger, waiting to be called on.

Gral snorted and then nodded.

"If our first attempt at censure was to fire on the Orions in order to cripple their ship, what is our recourse now that they have destroyed a vessel?" he asked.

Murmuring broke out and Gral waved his elongated fingers as if to hush them.

"Admiral Archer should arrive soon to debrief us and consider additional options."

T'Pol spoke up. "The Rigelian Ambassador is correct. Our rush to punish them has significantly jeopardized our position. Hopefully this time we can consider all the options before settling on one."

Gral growled a little. "Hmph! Vulcans spend years making decisions, Skinny!"

T'Pol knew the comment was directed at her. "Weighing all sides of the matter, President Gral, is precisely what our governments have asked us to do. Our response, from this point forward, must be exact. Our attitude must be cautious."

"Caution is what Vulcans excel at," Darag said. He combed his moustache with his fingers as he waited for her response.

"Since we need it now, perhaps you should rely heavily on my opinion."

A few chuckles broke out as Darag gave a hearty laugh.

"Skinny, when the time comes to act, we should always seize it," Gral said.

"Why?" Sera asked, coming to T'Pol's defense.

"Faydor, the temple seeker, has a saying – those who do not act, react," Gral said.

T'Pol rose her brow. "And Surak has a saying as well – those who act irrationally are shackled to their own strife."

Gral stood and then T'Pol, to make her mark, stood as well as she stared down at the little pig.

As if to break the tension, Gral's aid came in. "Sir, I have the admiral here."

"Bah!" Gral said. "Send him in."

Archer walked in and looked around the room. Usually his air was affable and somewhat bemused by the Council, but today – even new to the mood of the room - he seemed a little edgy … as if ready to take each of them to task.

Narrowing his eyes and standing a little straighter, he brought up information on a large screen behind Gral's head – a computer analysis of the events that destroyed the Columbia.

"At approximately 2000 hours GMT, three ships - an Orion battlecruiser, an Arali fighter and an unknown vessel - emerged from behind the moon of Ceti Alpha II. Immediately, they fired on the Columbia. The Starfleet vessel didn't have time to load its weapons; the Bridge and Armory were destroyed in less than ten minutes."

His voice quivered only slightly.

Taking a deep breath, he punched a few buttons. "The Potomac recovered the black box this morning. He's the recording."

He stood still, his head slightly bowed, as the information came over the loudspeaker.

_Static rang out and then the voice of Erika Hernandez._

"_So far so good, slow to impulse and--"_

"_Captain, I'm reading three large ships behind this moon," a deep voice said, urgently. _

"_What?" Erika asked. "Repeat."_

"_I'm reading three large ships. Orion, Arali and … an unidentified craft at 3 mark 7.2.1." _

"_Hard to port!" Erika said. "Hull plating--"_

"_On it!" said a male voice - most likely her tactical officer._

_A few explosions rattled, causing a little more static and then subsided._

"_Return fire," Erika said._

"_Weapons are offline!"_

"_What?" Erika asked._

"_They took out our phasers _and_ torpedoes."_

_Explosions could be heard in the background and a scream. _

"_Ma'am, I'm reading damage reports on C, D and …," said a female voice. _

_Another explosion – this one louder than before. _

"_All right, if we can't fight, we'll have to flee. Set a course for heading 2.2.1 at warp 3," Erika said._

"_Helm's not responding."_

"_We're sitting ducks!"_

_More explosions broke out, these even louder, as if panels were blown to smithereens._

"_Helmsman? Jim? Crewman Santo!" Erika screamed. "He's dead. Help me move him out of the way."_

"_Yes, ma'am." _

"_There's a fire in Engineering," said the same female voice from before._

"_Send a distress call, Shannon," Erika said. "I'm--"_

_This time a series of explosions could be heard with several screams. Beams sounded like they were crashing to the ground. _

"_Sickbay to the Bridge! We have several wounded here," Erika said. Her voice sounded raspy and she began to cough._

"_Captain, the large vessel is coming around again," said the tactical officer. He, too, sounded choked and hoarse._

"_Contact the lead ship for surrender protocols," Erika said._

"_No response!"_

"_Send it again!"_

"_Ma'am - nothing."_

"_Can they hear us? Have you transmitted it on all frequencies? Double check!" Erika shouted._

"_I have …. They're not responding. They can hear us surrender and they're not responding."_

"_Oh God," Erika whispered._

_Another series of explosions occurred and this time the static began to get louder until the end of the transmission completed._

Horrified ambassadors glanced at each other and then pointed their gaze toward the admiral. T'Pol saw pain mar his features, but he remained straight and tall, his eyes trained ahead.

Archer said, "I've asked Commanders Kobyashi and Maru, from our Strategy department to look into this. But, it seems they were trapped."

"Of course it was. This was in cold blood!" Gral shouted, pounding his fist on the table. "There must be a traitorous dog in our midst!"

"The three ships knew of the coordinates of Columbia behind that moon … as if they knew of our plans," Archer added.

Gral grunted. "Tamor?"

T'Pol contradicted the man. "He couldn't have, although he knew we may attack, he was unaware of the plans we'd agreed to."

"He could've guessed," Merah said. "They may've anticipated our response."

All eyes turned to each other suspiciously.

Gral spoke up. "It could be _anyone_."

"It could even be someone at Starfleet," Bagdol suggested nervously.

Although Archer didn't like the implication, he didn't disagree. "I've recommend we investigate this matter."

"What will this investigation entail?" Merah asked. "Will we be questioned?"

Archer agreed. "I'd recommend so, yes."

"We have diplomatic immunity!" Gral shouted. "Starfleet doesn't have the jurisdiction to question us, much less confine us for more than forty-eight hours. Your protocols do not oversee this Council."

Jon stared him down. "If that were true, we would release Tamor."

The little pig snarled as if enjoying a battle of wills.

T'Pol spoke up. "Although I agree Starfleet does not have the jurisdiction, I think it would be in our best interest to allow the investigation to continue."

There was silence.

"President, perhaps we can vote on this?" T'Pol asked.

Gral nodded with some dissatisfaction and bellowed for a vote. The Vulcan silently blew a sigh of relief as the investigation was allowed to continue by two votes. Looking around the room, the vote of the Earth ambassador was cautious – he agreed with Earth, but only when it seemed almost too close to call. As T'Pol expected Sera was on her side, giving her additional confidence.

"I trust your judgment," Sera said to Archer. "However, if the traitor is part of this group--"

"I suggest we suspend military options until the admiral has provided additional information," T'Pol said.

Gral snorted an agreement. "We have other business to conduct – like making a recommendation to who will replace Tamor."

"I believe that's the General's decision," T'Pol said. "It's not our right to make a suggestions to the Andorian government."

The admiral looked at the Earth ambassador, who was silent as usual, with disgust. T'Pol then noted he decided to speak up on Earth's behalf.

Archer said, "I think Ambassador Simons would tell you that Earth supports Shran."

To the Vulcan's bewilderment, a few heads nodded.

Gral smiled. "Thank you, Admiral." When Jon made his way to the doorway, the pig spoke.

"Yes, sir."

After Archer left the room, a hot debate ensued – mostly T'Pol against the majority of the room. Though she attempted to appeal to everyone's logic, she failed to sway their minds and votes. More than a few people knew Shran, and his reputation had proceeded him as someone who was fair.

_I wonder if this is the same Shran_, she thought as even Sera defended him.

In the end, despite her arguments, the majority of the room came to the conclusion that they would _ask_ General Krag to appoint Shran as the ambassador. When the decision was made, Gral gave a happy snort.

"I've missed seeing that blue devil."

T'Pol was tempted to do what human's often did when hearing something ridiculous: roll her eyes.

The Tellarite scanned the room with his eyes and called an adjournment. "I'll ask my aid to talk with you about schedules for the interviews Admiral Archer will conduct. Thank you for coming."

Everyone filed out of the room, and for the first time her assistant spoke.

"You do not think Shran is a wise appointment?" Staron asked.

She held her tongue.

"Soval indicated he is sage."

T'Pol had heard that her predecessor had been tortured by him and wondered, albeit briefly, why Soval had such trust in the man.

"I'm not certain," she said, coolly.

The two made their way back to her office when T'Pol saw the admiral waiting outside for her.

"Do you have a second?" Archer asked.

"Of course."

When Staron walked away the two headed into her office and she closed the door.

"I believe you've successfully lobbied; Gral will ask the General to appoint Shran."

There was a hint of irritation in her voice.

Archer smiled. "Well, I'm sure in time you'll see it was for the best. No one can stand up to Gral better than you and Shran, and you can't do it alone. I think the President needs to be challenged; otherwise, he'll continue to run roughshod over everyone."

"You're able to stand up to him," she commented.

"I'm not part of the Council."

After taking off her outer cloak, she noticed her friend watched her. "Something troubling you?"

"I appreciate your support today."

"I happen to agree, even if I disagree that Starfleet has jurisdiction."

"I was hoping I could count on your support again."

"Oh?"

He tapped his fingers along her desk. "I'd like to question you first. I think it would encourage the others."

"I see. When do you propose?"

"Tomorrow. Captain Reed can come and get you around 1300."

She nodded. "Very well."

"Thanks."

As he was about to turn around and leave a notion alighted. "Jonathan, I'm sure you've considered that some of the Council will attempt to deceive you."

"Phlox will be helping us. He'll be scanning brainwaves for--"

Immediately she thought of the secret T'Pau asked her to keep: the Romulans were the unidentified vessel. During the questioning it was likely – highly likely- that Malcolm or the admiral would ask her if she knew anything about the craft that fired on the Columbia. No doubt, they would learn she did.

He must've noticed her concern, because suddenly he stopped and began to explain the procedure.

"It's harmless, T'Pol; you won't even feel a thing." When that didn't placate her, he continued. "It's been used on Earth for decades as a way to determine truth."

"I'm a scientist, I understand the procedure. My concern is: _that _is a drastic step. The Council should not be subjected to this level of scrutiny."

"You're the one who said we'd have no way of knowing whether someone is lying."

She didn't refute that.

"Listen, it may be drastic, but we have to; we have no choice."

"Perhaps there are other ways to--"

"You uncovered one spy on the Council. What if there are more?"

She didn't respond.

"If they can blow up the Columbia, what else is in store? What if they decide to terrorize other members of the Council? Blow up the Council building? What if they do something like what the Xindi did?"

The two exchanged a glance before her eyes dodged away from his.

"A means does not always justify an ends."

"This time it does. And Gardner approved it."

"You're going to ask Phlox to determine whether _I'm _telling the truth?"

He folded his arms across his chest.

"I thought you trusted me," she said.

"I do."

The two stared at each other until he finally broke the silence.

"T'Pol, is there something I should know?"

"No."

He ducked his head toward hers attempting to catch her eye. "T'Pol?"

She narrowed her eyes and finally met his gaze. "No. I simply find the invasion of my thoughts … unsettling. My thoughts are private. All Vulcans feel this way."

She noticed her previous commander considered the information and then reluctantly nodded his head.

"Okay."

She raised her brows and internally nearly sighed in relief.

"But, I'd like to keep the fact you're getting special treatment between us."

"Very well."

He produced a reassuring smile. "I have a few things to do at my desk. Can I take you to eat later?"

"I'd like that," she asked.

With that, he left her office. As soon as the door closed, T'Pol sunk into the seat behind her desk. It bothered her that she'd lied to her friend and former commander, but reminded herself – with little comfort – that this would protect her homeworld.

And yet, she wasn't surprised she received his blessing to avoid Phlox's scan. She didn't lie when she said that Vulcans abhorred the practice. She also didn't fib when she indicated that she didn't think the Council members should have to undergo it. However, deep down, she agreed with him; they had no other choice.

Quietly she finished her work until 2000 when the admiral stopped by again to take her to dinner. Swallowing all guilt, she gathered her cloak and followed him.

TBC


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: Dennis, I'd love to know which five. Ed, thanks! And yes, Harris is indeed the same man from Section 31 in the Klingon arc … and the Terra Prime arc.

Thanks all for your comments. Reviews are a beautiful thing; they spark the imagination and soul … even when unfavorable.

If it's confusing, please don't be afraid to let me know.

* * *

Jonathan Archer sat at his desk, nervously twiddling his thumbs. It was exactly 1000 hours and the urge to pace around the room was nearly overpowering, except that the man wanted to get to the call Dr. Phlox would make right away … even before his assistant did. 

After looking at the clock one more time, the temptation to leave his chair was too great, and he found himself striding across his room deep in thought. Waiting.

As he made his way from one of the room to another, he thought about the whirlwind of the past few days. Walking the halls wasn't as warm and chummy as it had always been; people marched down each corridor with a sense of purpose … with mission. Turning down hallway after hallway he smelled something in the air: change, dramatic change.

_I think it started the day T'Pol came._

Rousing him from his thoughts, his monitor beeped and he ran across his room to get to it.

"Admiral, I have news on our patient," Phlox said. His eyes narrowed and a grimace covered his face. It was 1035 hours.

Archer quickly fumbled to encrypt the message. "Go ahead."

The doctor sighed. "He's Orion."

"What about his appearance?"

"It's been altered."

"How do you know for certain?"

"He has a hollow antennae."

"And that--"

"Along with the scans confirms his identity."

Archer's jaw tensed and he threw his eyes to the other end of the room.

"I didn't think you'd like this news."

"Have you double-checked?" Archer asked.

"Yes." He hesitated and then continued. "I walked by his cell, indicating I was there to talk with a patient, Dr. Soong, in the neighboring one and scanned him surreptitiously. The readings were clear and unmistakable. Luckily Dr. Soong didn't give me away."

Archer shook his head. No one would believe Dr. Soong even if he did mention something; the man had seemingly gone insane rattling off ideas about androids who looked like humans.

"While I was there, I saw someone who you might remember," Phlox said. "He was talking to the prisoner."

"Who?" And before the Denobulan could continue, Archer knew exactly who would be there. If there was a breach near Starfleet HQ, this man would be on top of it … and possibly even involved in the intrigue.

"Harris," Phlox said.

Captain Reed's words came back to the admiral and flittered around his brain – his chance meeting in the hall with Tamor and his observation that the prisoner wasn't who everyone thought he was. Although Reed was brilliant, unquestionably the best tactical officer in Starfleet, he wasn't omniscient.

_Captain Reed works for Section 31._

It made too much sense. Reed's promotion to captain happened quickly … too fast for a regular officer who'd been in the ranks as long as he had, despite his military prowess. Only reinforcing the notion was: his assignment to identify which aircraft fired the weapon on Columbia and his warning against involving Harris.

There was no doubt in Archer's mind: Reed worked for Section 31. Either was still paying his dues, or he was tempted by the mystery around the organization again.

With a bent head, he realized the former had to be true. Although Reed never told him, he knew the information they'd learned about Terra Prime – the information that Harris provided to find T'Pol and Trip's child - came with a price; Malcolm was not just invited back to work for the super secret organization … he was _expected _to be one of the operatives.

The missing piece was having Reed suggest not involve Harris and to scan Tamor; it meant Reed wanted Archer to know he was working for that group. It meant this was possibly even more dire than the admiral had imagined.

"Admiral?" Phlox asked, breaking the silence.

"At your first opportunity--" Archer began.

"I'll be there as soon as possible to give you the evidence firsthand, sir."

The screen faded and Archer leaned back in his chair in disbelief.

_I'll talk with Captain Reed _in person.

* * *

When T'Pol entered the Council room, she looked around to see the ambassadors milling about. The ten to fifteen minutes before each session, she noticed that some of the group made small talk and sometimes attempted to negotiate advantages with members. Staron never engaged in it, instead he always took his place in his seat while folding his hands lamely in his lap and staring into space. The Vulcan woman raised her brow at him and then proceeded toward him cautiously. 

"If you do not wish to be here, you could wait until the council session starts."

"Ambassador Soval believed it was important for me to be here."

She wanted to sigh, but stifled it. "I didn't mean to indicate you aren't needed. It … it seems you find the interaction before session a chore."

He didn't disagree.

"From now on, why don't you join me at the start of the session," she said.

"Gral is always late."

"I've noticed. Not everyone is as punctual as Vulcans."

He gave a sharp nod. "Ambassador?"

"Yes?"

"You have maintained your friendships with … humans, including living with one."

He was talking about Jonathan.

"Our cohabitation is merely one of convenience," she said. "I haven't had time to find a place to stay."

His reaction was skeptical. "Do you think it looks appropriate for you to stay with him?"

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"He is a representative from Starfleet. By living with him, it may seem he always has your full support." Because she didn't speak, he continued. "As the humans say, it appears he has you in his pocket."

"I agree with him when I believe it's in the best interest of the Council or Vulcan."

"He has asked to interrogate you."

"Not interrogate, question in relation to the Ambassador from Andoria. I believe it is in the best interest of the Council to do so."

"Is it in the best interest of Vulcan?"

"If there is another traitor in our midst, it may negatively affect Vulcan. Yes."

"Most of the Council believe the two of you to be … involved."

The idea seemed too preposterous, so she had to clarify. "Involved?"

"You cohabitate. There have been some who have seen you touch him – something many know Vulcans rarely do. You have supported him when others, in this Council, have not. Yes, it appears that you two are involved."

Confusion spread over her features. "We're friends."

"Ambassador, if you want my counsel, you will find your own living establishment as soon as possible and distance yourself from the human."

The woman blinked. Just as she was about to respond to her assistant, Gral waddled in with a beaming smile covering his face causing his snout to crinkle with glee.

"I've asked the Andorian General, on behalf of this Council, to have Shran represent them."

What was a light buzz when he entered the room suddenly gave way to absolute silence. T'Pol could feel every ambassador wait for what they would call good news.

"He has agreed."

Bagdol, the Rigelian Ambassador, gave a light cheer and Sera, the Xindi one, smiled. Darag, the S'Ahad, gave an excited shout that sounded somewhere between a honk and a caw. Merah, from Veral, clapped and even Neville Simon, the Earth's mousy ambassador, tapped his hands together weakly. The other members had broken into full throttled joy. Even Staron stood, his eyebrow poked high against his bangs as if giving his approval.

T'Pol remained sitting, feeling her mouth slope ever so slightly down.

Gral pushed his hands in front of his chest and snorted. "Quiet, quiet. I have further news. Please be seated."

Everyone made their way to their chairs. As Gral climbed into his, he looked down the table at T'Pol and grunted.

"Skinny, you shouldn't be so sad. Having Shran here will feel like times of old."

She didn't comment.

Gral said, "The General has agreed to send him right away. He should arrive tomorrow on the Katara."

"I believed Shran to be an enemy of the state," she said.

The last she'd heard, the Andorian had been tossed out of the Imperial Guard and was supposedly on the run with his wife – if that's what she was – and child. It was hard to fathom that he'd been welcomed back into the fold so readily and so quickly.

"Whatever his relationship with Andoria, the General agreed without convincing. He himself indicated the man was the … logical … choice."

T'Pol's lips flattened.

Gral said, "I've spoken to Admiral Gardner. There will be a welcoming reception for him in three days time. I hope you will _all_ be there."

His eyes found her and she didn't respond.

As the little pig rambled on about Shran, Sera, sitting to T'Pol's left, leaned over.

"Ambassador, perhaps he will be a welcome addition. You have a history with him, but he is respected throughout the universe … at least my people find him worthy," Sera said.

"I hope I am proven wrong," T'Pol said.

Interrupting the two, Gral spoke up on the first order of business. "The Vulcan Ambassador has volunteered to be questioned by Admiral Archer first."

T'Pol was silent, but heard a murmur from the other side of the table. Xemax, the Denobulan ambassador, while smiling grotesquely, indicated it was no surprise.

"The admiral asked me to do so," T'Pol said in her own defense. "Vulcan has nothing to hide, and neither do I."

"Why didn't he ask the Earth ambassador? Isn't he going to be questioned?" Darag asked.

Neville shrugged and quietly spoke. "I presume I'll be asked. I haven't heard from President Gral or Admiral Archer yet."

There was a slight hubbub until Gral pounded his fist on the table while snorting. The noise finally caught the attention of the room.

"This Council agreed to being questioned. Ambassador T'Pol is doing her duty," Gral said.

Merah spoke up. "We can vote again to avoid questioning."

"That vote has come and gone," Sera said. "If each member of this Council won't agree to be questioned, then … I will advise my government to ask Starfleet to hold us here."

Another commotion began.

Bagdol said over the noise, "We're assuming there's another traitor. What if none exists. This could be Starfleet's attempt to take over. They could've fabricated the data regarding Columbia."

T'Pol's eyes flew to the Earth ambassador who was quiet, so she decided to speak up. "If Starfleet was interested in dissolving this Council, they could've done so long ago. Admiral Archer was instrumental in the foundation of this organization. It wouldn't be _logical _for him to destroy it now."

"Nathan Samuel was the founder of this group, not the admiral," Neville said.

The Council room was quiet.

Neville said, "Jonathan Archer has never been a diplomat; he's a military commander, Ambassador. Pure and simple. He doesn't have the interests of Earth in mind, he has the interests of Starfleet."

T'Pol felt her face flush with anger, but she controlled her temper before speaking. She felt Staron's eyes on her regardless, as if he could feel her emotions.

She said, "Ambassador Simon, I understand you were an aid to the prime minister while he was in power, but _you _were not there at the founding of the coalition or Federation. Gral himself can tell you of the admiral's importance. Do not use this pulpit to besmirch the admiral's good name."

Gral gave a grunt and nodded his head.

T'Pol continued. "If the admiral believes there is a traitor in our midst and wants to question this council, _I _will support him … not because I served with him, but because he is _correct_. Everything the admiral has done as a military commander has helped create this Federation. _Everything_. If you are not aware of that, sir, you are a greater fool than I supposed."

Neville stood up. "I resent that!"

T'Pol quipped an eyebrow at him, but remained silent.

Sera weighed in. "Ambassador T'Pol is correct when she says the Admiral Archer was instrumental. Without his involvement during the Xindi War, we never would've achieved peace with you. And your planet may now well be dust … as well as my own."

Neville sneered and looked around the room, but no one rose to his defense.

"President Gral, I volunteer to be the second one questioned," Sera said.

Gral shook his head. "_I _will be second. You will have to be third." His snout twitched in the air and his pointy teeth showed – his version of a smile. The Tellarite went on with the meeting and the rest of the ambassadors listened contently; only Neville glared at T'Pol from time-to-time while the Vulcan ignored him.

As business continued, and they'd moved on, T'Pol thought back to Staron's comments: she wondered whether he was right about the Council's question of her allegiance. Her friendship with Jonathan, and how visible it was, could in the long run hurt them both. Inquiries about her loyalty would continue to come up and rumors that the two were intimate, no matter how false, would damage their careers or reputations.

Something else bothered her. Now more than ever, it was important to show the Council that she was neutral … an unbiased voice. She wouldn't be able to serve Vulcan without that reputation. Knowing the admiral, one of the most famous faces of Earth and someone who spoke to the Council regularly, may prevent her from appearing balanced.

If being his friend would harm her reputation and office, continuing to live with him would be catastrophic.

Silently, she made a promise to spend the afternoon, while recessed and before being questioned, looking for an apartment.

* * *

Phlox presented the evidence to Archer as they sat in his office. The facts were irrefutable. Sound. Tight. Logical. The only problem was: either it was a sham to General Krag of Andoria or suddenly the Andorians were working with the Orions. 

"Why did the Orion decide to appear as an Andorian?" Archer asked. The question was rhetorical, but surprisingly Phlox had an answer.

"Orion and Andorian physiology is similar. There are small differences that one would have to scrutinize to be able to tell."

"You were able to ascertain it quickly."

"I knew, in essence, what I was looking for. You asked me to scan to ensure he was an Andorian. The only four species he could've been were: Andorian, Veral, Aenar or Orion. Each one has a distinct difference: the Aenar have a small genome difference, but look quite similar. The Veral have a slightly larger heart, and could be confused if that Veral has a pulmonary disease. Orions have larger lungs, and could be confused if the patient has a respiratory disease."

"And you knew this Andorian didn't have a respiratory disease?"

"Because one antennae was hollow."

Archer had been wondering about this. "Couldn't an Andorian have an antennae replacement?"

"They could, but the Ambassador had no other sign of ailment. Admiral, I'd stake my reputation on my diagnosis."

That was good enough for Archer. He nodded.

"Something is afoot," Phlox mentioned. "You've asked me to determine the brain patterns as you question the Council. You believe one of them is a traitor?"

"It certainly seems that way."

The Denobulan bowed his head. "When I was in the military, I had to perform acts I didn't like. I helped to question prisoners by giving them a truth serum."

"I didn't ask you to do that."

"They told me everything. They confessed to cheating on their wife, deceiving commanding officers, contracting embarrassing illnesses, starting fights – yet blaming others, causing ugly domestic disputes and even soiling themselves on capture."

Archer frowned. "I'm not asking you to do that, Phlox."

"It's disgraceful. It sickened me. I should never have known what was in their minds."

"We don't need any of that. I just want to confirm that they're telling me the truth."

"On Earth you have the Hippocratic oath. Its basic principle is to do no harm."

"I'm not asking you to harm them."

"On Denobula, our oath is: heal. What I'll be performing isn't _healing_ anyone."

"Doctor, what you'll be doing is to help protect people in the future. Think of what we could've done if we'd learned of the Xindi attack before it happened; we could've stopped it."

The doctor trained his eyes on his feet.

"And I would've done anything … _anything _… to stop the Xindi … to prevent seven million people from dying," Archer said. "The attack on the freighters, Tamor's real identity, the destruction of Columbia …. I'm afraid the Orions and Arali are up to something, and if anything _else _happens that war will break out."

Phlox's blue eyes met his and he leaned toward his physician.

Archer said, "I'll do everything in my power to ensure that doesn't happen. I understand your reservations, but I need your help more than ever."

The Denobulan closed his eyes. Archer could only imagine what the man was thinking – ruminating about the current peace of the region, his allegiance to Starfleet or maybe his first grandchild. Slowly, he opened his eyes and the severity of the look made the admiral suck in a breath.

"When is our first appointment?" Phlox asked.

Jon bowed his head in relief. "Tomorrow. 1700 hours. I'll ensure you're not in the room."

"I don't need to hide, Admiral. Although I suspect you'll want to increase my clearance."

The Denobulan packed his scanner and PADD that contained the evidence carefully in a bag and silently made his way to the door.

"Thank you," Archer said.

The physician gave a simple nod, his back to the admiral, and walked out the door. Upon Phlox's departure, Archer stared at the floor hoping he made the right decision. The doctor had always been scrupulous; his ethics meant everything to him.

_That's something I've admired, even when I didn't agree._

This wasn't the first time Archer had asked him to cast them aside, and this wasn't the first time the doctor had agreed to do so despite misgivings.

The intercom buzzed, shaking him from his thoughts. It was Diane, his assistant.

"Sir, Captain Reed is here to see you."

Archer frowned. "Send him in."

TBC


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: Thanks guys! Juliaw, I just might.

* * *

Captain Malcolm Reed entered through the door looking a little like a boy who'd been called into the principal's office for misconduct – darting his eyes around the room and kicking his feet against the blue carpet. 

Archer silently wondered if the tactical officer had _ever_ been called into the office; he figured the guy had always been a model student who'd worked harder than anyone else in his class to earn his well-deserved "A+." From looking at Malcolm's transcript, he at least had evidence to back up that theory; the tactical officer was on the Dean's list for both Kingston – where he graduated in history - and Starfleet Academy.

_Malcolm has always been an overachiever. _

"You wanted to see me, sir?" Reed asked, his voice barely audible.

The shame he exhibited almost tendered Archer's heart. Jonathan always had great affection for his crew – every single one of them, and Malcolm Reed was no exception. But, this was a time to be steely; he needed answers.

"Shut the door," Archer said, sitting down.

Timidly the man did.

"You wanted me to find out about you … that you're in Section 31, didn't you?" Archer asked.

Malcolm's lips twitched. "Yes."

"Why didn't you just tell me?"

"I know how you feel about them. And, the channel I use in tactical isn't secure."

"My room is?" Archer asked.

"Surprisingly more secure, yes. And … well, sir our friendship--"

"You thought your involvement with Section 31 would jeopardize our friendship?"

"Yes."

"It wouldn't," Archer said.

Reed finally looked into his eyes, so Archer continued. "You're not involved in just this are you? I mean you've been involved in more than just the investigation of Ambassador Tamor or the Columbia. You've been in Section 31 since we discovered Terra Prime, haven't you?"

Reed was silent.

"Even when you were aboard Enterprise." It was a statement, not a question.

Reed answered, "I didn't want to compromise your trust. If there was something Harris asked me to do that conflicted with an order … or would jeopardize Enterprise and our mission … I wouldn't have done it, sir."

Somehow he believed that, but he pressed on. "Which missions were you involved in?"

"I can't say."

"I see."

The two men stared each other down, and Reed flinched a bit under his scrutiny. Archer knew he intimidated Malcolm from time-to-time. Finally, Archer spoke.

"Have a seat."

Malcolm sat in front of the desk in one of the open blue chairs.

"By telling me now, you could jeopardize the work Section 31 is doing," Archer said.

"Possibly."

"Did Harris tell you to do this?"

"No."

"Were you followed?"

"No, but it wouldn't matter if I was."

The admiral nodded. He knew he intimated Reed from time-to-time. Early in his captaincy, he disliked the feeling that he made Malcolm jump. When he entered the Expanse making the tactical officer nervous was what he'd hope to do; his goal was to push every single crewman to his or her limit in order to save Earth. After that, he'd occasionally he'd use that slight fear to his advantage, but … Malcolm was a good man. So the admiral sighed and tried to ease back on the military commander routine.

Archer said, "I know getting back involved with them wasn't necessarily your idea, and I appreciate your honesty now."

The younger man blew out a long breath. "Thank you, sir. Would you still like me to serve as the lead on the investigations?"

"Why wouldn't I? You're the best man for the job."

It earned the admiral a small smile. Reed broke the silence with an update. "By now I take it you've learned that Tamor is an Orion?"

"Yes."

"Section 31 suspects there's another spy on the Federation Council."

"I'd have to agree. Do you know who?"

"They've narrowed it down to three possible suspects."

"Who are the three?"

"You won't like the answer."

Archer waited.

"T'Pol, Bagdol and Merah."

Shock shown over every feature of his face. "T'Pol!"

Gravely the tactician nodded. "Yes, sir. I told you that you wouldn't like that answer."

Archer said, "It's impossible. She just joined the Council a few days ago."

"Yes, her appearance corresponds with a number of incidents."

Archer wanted to laugh. "No way."

"She's had several communications with T'Pau, one of which--"

"These people have diplomatic privileges to contact their own governments any time they want to. I'm telling you, it's not T'Pol." Archer immediately stood up and began to pace.

"Sir, we were able to translate something in one of the communications between Minister T'Pau and T'Pol."

"You're recording ambassadors' private conversations?"

"No, Section 31 is."

"That's against the Federation regulations."

"Not Starfleet's."

That exasperated him. "It's not T'Pol."

"This may be hard to accept, but … she indicated to T'Pau she'd lie about something. From the translation it sounds grave."

Suddenly, Jon remembered his conversation with her yesterday, where she'd asked for Phlox not to use a scanner on her during her questioning. He didn't like what this made him think; he didn't like the implications.

_Not T'Pol._ "The Kir'Shara specifically says that Vulcans do not lie," Jon started.

"The first official day T'Pol was in office, a spy was ousted and the Columbia was attacked."

"It could've been anyone."

"She's been acting strangely ever since she's arrived on Earth. You said so yourself."

"She's been through a lot, Malcolm. I think Trip's death was hard on her."

"No offense, but Trip's death was hard on everyone. Admiral, I don't like it either, but--"

"I'm not going to sit here and listen to this! This is T'Pol we're talking about. She'd never betray us."

In the smallest of voices, Reed questioned this theory. "What about her trellium use in the Expanse? Wasn't that betrayal?"

Trellium. It was never discussed. _Ever. _In all the years they'd known each other, he never asked about it … probably because he didn't want to know. He'd guessed about her exploration with the drug, but he'd always chalked it up to -- a method to cope with the constant bombardment of emotion, a way to show her feelings for Trip or a scientific experiment that she believed would somehow save the ship. In Archer's mind, the latter had to be true because she was too logical to do it for any other reason.

"Those were rumors," Archer said.

"I was on the Bridge with her, sir. They were hardly rumors."

The two stared at each other, and Archer's eyes hardened. "T'Pol has never lied to me. Never. And that's final."

"Sir--"

"I said that's final. Understood?"

Reed swallowed and then drew his lips together. "Have you asked Phlox to scan her as you question her?"

"I'm not going to discuss this with you."

"Admiral, I'm only telling you what I know."

Archer turned away to shoot his icy glare at the window outside.

Reed said, "You may not believe her to be a spy … I'm not sure I do either … but we have to _at least _consider the possibility. She left, without a word, for one year. We don't know what happened in that time. We know that when she came back, havoc erupted on the Council: a spy was discovered and the Columbia was destroyed."

Archer shook his head.

Reed continued. "If you haven't asked Phlox to ensure she's telling the truth, I would highly recommend you do. As your chief investigator, I think it's wise."

Jon didn't respond.

"She's my friend too, Admiral, but … this goes beyond friendship," Reed said.

Archer's brow dipped against his eyes, and he scowled. Finally, he turned his head slowly to the captain without looking him in the eye.

"I'll see you today at 1300 hours in my office to help question T'Pol."

"Sir, I hope--"

"Dismissed."

After Malcolm looked over his shoulder once – something Archer could see in the reflection of the picture of Enterprise on his wall – he filed out with his head against his chest. Everything in the man's demeanor let Archer know he wasn't proud to call T'Pol a traitor; in fact, the admiral wasn't sure Malcolm even agreed with that assessment.

_He's just doing his job … the job I asked him to do._

Sitting at his desk, staring at the monitor in front of him, he considered what Reed had to say. The evidence was damning, but worse – his instincts lit up like a Christmas tree. Something about Malcolm's comments had an air of being true. Archer had known something was wrong yesterday even after their discussion about Phlox scanning her during questioning; T'Pol was quiet at dinner. Guilt marred her features; Archer had seen that expression before … the day he'd returned to Enterprise from being interrogated by the Reptilian Xindi.

_Damnit!_

His fist pounded the desk.

Then shaking his head, he whispered to himself. "T'Pol would never spy on the Council or Starfleet."

_She's staked her reputation on me more than once; the least I can do is stake mine on her._

_

* * *

_

T'Pol's foray into apartment hunting was quick and successful. Rather than go through the tedious humanlike method of searching for apartments, going through them and determining if they fit her style, she began her search quite logically. Immediately, she called a few services and asked them search for her, giving them every specification she had.

The specifications, she thought, were easy to meet. The abode had to be quiet, filled with light – as much as San Francisco could afford and airy. It had to be close to work, so that she could walk or commute. And the dwelling had to be friendly to Vulcans.

As long as every criterion was met, she needn't see the apartment ahead of time.

Finding such a place took the service less than an hour, and by lunchtime she was already an owner with a set of entry codes.

Gathering her cloak to her, one that hung around her long Vulcan robes, she walked across the campus into the Starfleet building. It was less than a mile away, across a long courtyard from the Federation Council's edifice, and Archer's office was a short distance once she made it inside.

As she entered his office, she was somewhat surprised to see Captain Reed; Archer hadn't mentioned him attending in their discussion yesterday.

"Hello, Malcolm, I hadn't expected you."

"The admiral asked me to assist him."

"I see. Is Phlox--?"

Jonathan threw a glance at Malcolm and then shook his head. "No. Thank you for volunteering, Ambassador," he said, formally.

She thought it strange that he used her title. "Of course, Admiral."

Jon held his hand out for her to sit down, while Reed loomed over her.

"I take it Hoshi is well?" T'Pol asked Reed.

"Yes, very." He paused briefly. "Well, I'm sure we'd all like to get this over with."

Archer leaned against his desk, as Reed called up some information on PADD.

Malcolm said, "T'Pol, you'd made several calls to Minister T'Pau."

"I contact my government at least once a day. I assume the other ambassadors do as well."

"Staron, your aid, was able to reveal some damning evidence of Ambassador Tamor," Reed said.

"Yes. I'm fortunate to have a capable assistant."

"What made you think to see if Tamor was a spy?" Reed asked.

"He fought too vehemently against Merah, the Veralan ambassador, about trade. Andorians, although warlike and sometimes duplicitous, would've welcomed that alliance. In addition, it's the responsibility of the Federation to ensure we help each other in any way possible; Andoria would've. And it appeared they would've profited from that trade.

"When my assistant, Staron, viewed the data, he came across information that Tamor – specifically – had been negotiated personally many favorable trade agreements with the Orions, including weaponry. Andoria and Orion are not allies, nor have they ever been," she said. "Staron came across a photo of Tamor taken with the captain of the N'Gara. None of these were ever communicated to the General through formal correspondence."

"In the records, we see that Tamor actually recommended to take action against the Orions," Archer said.

"That is correct."

"Why would a 'traitor' do that?" Archer asked.

"Avoid suspicion."

Reed loomed over her. "During one of your communiqués to Minister T'Pau you indicated--"

"Let's not go over that," Archer said.

"Sir, I thought we'd come to agreement."

"You record the conversations I have with my government?" she asked.

"No, _we_ don't," Archer said. His eyes flew menacingly toward Reed.

Reed looked at both friends. "Regardless of how we have the data, we have it. I'm sorry, T'Pol, but in one of the discussions, we determined that you would lie to protect the Vulcan people."

She stood up, incredulous; her eyes flung to Archer. "Decoding and translating private conversations is against Federation rules."

"Answer the question," Reed said.

She asked, "Would I lie to you to protect my homeworld?"

"Yes," Reed said.

She took a deep breath. "It's against Vulcan principles – everything we stand for - to lie."

Archer gave a smirk, as if he'd predicted that'd be her answer all along.

She continued. "However, yes. If I knew information would destroy my planet, I would hide it even from you two … my friends."

Suddenly Archer's face fell. "T'Pol, of all people _you _can tell us."

"There are some things, I can't tell you," she whispered.

"I thought you trusted me?" he asked. "Trusted us?"

"I do."

"I don't understand," he whispered.

"I'm sorry." Turning her attention to Reed she said, "Malcolm, do you have all of my conversation?"

She noticed his hesitation as if he was afraid to answer her. Finally, he gave in. "No."

"Starfleet didn't record it, Section 31 did?" she asked.

The question hung in the air without an answer.

"I see," she said. "Admiral, I won't disclose that you've recorded my conversations. If that information were revealed to the Council--"

"I appreciate it," Reed said.

"Is that all?" she asked.

As she was about to head for the door, Archer loomed over her – leaving his desk – causing her to sit back down.

"Do you know anything about the unidentified craft that fired on and destroyed the Columbia?" he asked.

"No," she said.

"T'Pol?" he asked.

"No."

Jonathan raised his eyebrows, as if to test her answer, and she responded by blinking slowly.

"No."

Once again, she was about to stand when Archer said something that startled her.

"Malcolm, could you give us a few minutes?" he asked.

"Admiral, I don't recommend--" the Brit said. Suddenly, he stopped when he saw Archer's laser-like gaze. "Yes, sir."

When the captain closed the door behind him, Archer stood over her – his face a little flushed.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"What do you mean?"

"You're impeding a Starfleet investigation."

Her head snapped back a little at the accusation. "Jonathan--"

"You realize Malcolm, as part of his duty, could take this request to a tribunal."

"I indicated I didn't know who attacked the Columbia, and I believe my answer regarding Tamor is--"

"You can lie to him, but don't do that to me."

She was silent.

"We've been friends far too long, been through too much together," he said.

"I--"

"I can read you, T'Pol."

Her gaze fell on her hands. "I have nothing to say."

"We'll find out soon enough. Tell me."

T'Pol placed her eyes on him again. "There are some things, I need to keep even from you, Jonathan."

He shook his head. "Not this."

Licking her lips, she disagreed. "Minister T'Pau specifically asked me--"

"Not this! More than ninety people died. You have an obligation to help. I need you to--"

"I can't." After watching his face get redder, she spoke up in her own defense. "More than ninety people's lives are at stake if I tell you what you want to know."

His eyes narrowed. "Don't you think that needs to be _our_ decision, not yours?"

"It doesn't affect you."

"The Hell it doesn't! We're already involved."

"Please …."

He crouched down to her eye level and lost some of his anger. With a soft voice, the one he sometimes used -- like the time she was in Sickbay having barely survived the trellium from the Selaya, he implored her.

"I need you to trust me," he said.

His eyes shimmered, as they often did when he was angry or pained, and she found herself beginning to weaken under the pleas of her friend.

He said, "You once told me that you needed me to believe in you. Do you remember?"

She'd asked him at the time to listen to V'Lar, though there was no logical reason for him to do this. Although she'd spotted his mistrust, he'd agreed to do so and risked Enterprise to protect the ambassador.

"I've never asked you for anything before, but I'm asking this now. Too much is at stake, T'Pol. Too many lives are lost. We're at the brink of war."

"We're at the brink of war, anyway," she countered. He continued to gaze at her, hopeful and serious and her resolve vanished. "I asked T'Pau if I could tell you. We'd trusted you before; you helped to deliver the Kir'Shara. Vulcan owes you."

"I won't divulge anything you ask me not to."

"You mustn't. Vulcan, and our entire society and culture, is at stake."

"The unidentified craft?" he prodded.

There was one way she could get around revealing everything; he didn't need to know about the Romulans and Vulcans common lineage to take further action. She could also get around telling him that the Romulans had been the ones who'd destroyed the Columbia … and T'Pau had expected the humans to uncover this anyway and soon. Although she'd been asked to omit the truth … or, to use T'Pau's words "be silent" about it … she didn't see the harm in providing additional information that would lead him to the culprit.

"Tell Captain Reed to run a match between the weapon's fire and the vessel we encountered in the minefield approximately nine years ago."

"It is the Romulans?"

"I made a vow to T'Pau; I won't break it. I believe I've given you the information that you need."

It appeared he understood the answer was yes, and satisfied, he stood. "Why couldn't you reveal this?"

"The repercussions to this secret are enormous."

"I don't understand."

"For the sake of Vulcan, I hope you never do."

Getting up, she stared into his eyes. "Are you finished with me?"

"Yes," he said.

As she walked to the door, he asked a strange question. "We're still friends, right?"

Turning around to face him, she agreed. "Yes. Aren't we?"

"Yes." He gave her a small smile and then kicked the carpet with his foot. "It seems like politics will come between us from time-to-time."

"Our clash was inevitable. As you once told me, as an ambassador I'm bound to serve my people first. And your duty is to Starfleet."

"I guess so. But, I know you're mostly looking out for our best interest."

"And I know you're looking out for the interests of the Council."

He agreed.

She said, "I'm sorry I couldn't tell you about the Columbia."

"I know you are. I didn't realize they were recording your conversations."

"That is quite unsettling. Although I won't discuss this with other council members, I'm hoping you'll take this up with Harris."

"Damned right I will."

He walked her to the door.

"Do you have dinner plans?" she asked. "I have something I'd like to discuss with you."

"It doesn't have anything to do with work, does it?" he asked. His voice sounded a little exasperated and at the same time light, as if making a joke.

"No."

He nodded. "What time?"

"2000 hours? Can you meet me at 803 Market Street?"

Squinting he looked away for a second. "I don't know of any restaurant there."

"Be at that address."

With that, she left and noticed Reed out of the corner of her eye.

"T'Pol, I'm sorry--" Malcolm began.

She shook her head slowly. "You were doing your duty, as you always do, Captain. And I was doing mine."

Touching his shoulder lightly, she looked him in the eye. "You've done nothing wrong. You are an excellent officer, Malcolm."

Before he could respond, she strolled away. On her way out of the Starfleet building, she noted the time by the clock on the wall. She'd been in Archer's office a little over an hour.

Deep down, she wondered whether she should've told even Jonathan about the Romulans. The clue was too obvious; of course he would know the culprit right away. And yet, an equally strong feeling lay in the pit of her stomach as well: she should've told her long-time friend about the enemy right away. The destruction of the Columbia was personal – not just to him, but also to her. As his friend, she should've told him. She owed it to him … that and a lot more. Worse, she owed it to herself as a woman who'd served in Starfleet for six years.

Politics had gotten in the way of their friendship and niggled her conscience, and silently she wondered if it would happen again. Actually, she didn't wonder, she determined it would and that the consequences would no doubt be more severe.

_I wonder if our friendship can endure?_

* * *

When Reed came back into Archer's office, the tactical officer hung his head; Archer could tell the young man felt shame … even if he didn't need to.

"T'Pol would never betray us," Reed said.

The guy had been doing his job, and a through one. Archer clapped him on the back.

"Don't worry. I don't think she takes what happened personally." Actually, the admiral was pretty sure she had – not that he would blame her, but Malcolm needed cheering up.

"She said she understood I was doing my job," Reed said.

"You are and were."

He nodded lamely. "Did she give you any information?"

"Check the Enterprise's database for the vessel that nearly lost you a leg nine years ago."

"The mines?"

"Yes."

"Romulans," Reed whispered.

Archer frowned. "Let me know what you find out."

"If the Romulans, Orions and Arali have joined forces …. It may be worse than even Section 31 thought."

Archer didn't disagree.

As Reed was about to head out the door, Archer stopped him. "Malcolm, don't ask Hoshi to translate anything else from Ambassador T'Pol's office. Okay?"

"How did you--?"

"Only one person in Starfleet could've decoded a Vulcan encryption and provided you a translation."

Reed raised his brows. "In her defense, sir. She didn't know what it was until she'd translated a few words."

"She's not working for Section 31 too, is she?"

Reed didn't answer until Archer narrowed his eyes.

"Her expertise is used by many offices."

Archer shook his head. Maybe it was better he didn't know. It was difficult to think of his previous sassy, yet sweet, communications officer as some Matahari … not that he believed she was seducing men across the fleet.

_Better not think about it._

Archer asked, "So, working together, did it help you two develop--?"

Reed gave a shy grin. "We are often on opposite sides of an issue, but spending time together …. Let's just say it didn't hurt."

"Huh," Archer said. It was a comment to himself.

"Anything else, sir?"

"No. Thanks, Malcolm."

As the captain was about to head out, Archer called out to him. "And, continue to do you job – that includes challenging me. I'm not always right."

Malcolm laughed a little too hard. "Glad you recognized that, sir."

Archer gave a lopsided smile and nodded as the man left.

Things on Enterprise had usually been complicated, but for some reason – these days – things were more complex. It'd been nearly ten years ago that he would've questioned T'Pol's loyalty, and even now he understood her responsibilities to her own government would mean sometimes the two would be at odds.

_It's understandable._

It didn't mean he wasn't disappointed anyway. Though she was there to represent her people and the government of Minister T'Pau, he'd held onto a silly notion that she'd support him and Starfleet no matter what … that she'd side with her old friends no matter what.

_I was kidding myself._

TBC


	10. Chapter 10

A/N: ArafelSedaj, thanks for the very nice comments … but I disagree about your fic. It's great! You've captured A/T'P beautifully!

* * *

Archer got home to his apartment and threw his briefcase on the couch with a sigh. He'd had long days before, but for some reason they kept getting longer and more arduous. Porthos, who was only now starting to lame with age, hobbled up to him and the man bent down to scratch his dog behind the ears. 

"Have a good day?" he asked his dog.

A bark and wagging tail let him know. It caused Archer to smile and bend down to lavish more attention on him, as the dog tried to lick at his face. Typically, his master hated it, but this time he let the little creature get his nose on the third attempt and with a chuckle left him to fill up the food and water bowl.

As Porthos devoured what was before him, the admiral rolled his head around his neck to force the tension away, giving the coffee table a passing glance. Jerking his head to attention, he looked at the table again, furrowing his brow; something was missing.

_There aren't any candles._

T'Pol had strategically placed them around his living room – big, smelly red ones - to make the apartment feel more like her home. Somehow the lack of spicy, wax pillars made the admiral frown. Although he'd wrinkled his nose at them silently when she'd scattered them around his apartment – at his urging – now his lips curled down at their absence. They'd added a certain quality that his apartment had been lacking.

_I wonder where she put them._

"T'Pol?" he asked the apartment. Porthos barely turned his head.

Rapping his knuckles quietly on her bedroom door, he called her name. When she didn't respond, he knocked with a little more gusto and slid the door open. The bed was made with fresh sheets, and her bags – the ones that she'd stuffed neatly into a corner – were no longer piled there.

It was vacant.

He thought about the address she'd given him.

Living in Union Square himself, he was familiar with the area. Market Street had a lot of shops and restaurants, but the blocks between 700 and 900 were residential. And then a light bulb went off.

_She got an apartment._

To test his memory and see if his guess was right, he walked over to a PADD and called up the city's maps. Typing in the address, he saw that she'd chosen to live in a large skyscaper, _The Monroe,_ about two blocks away from him.

_She didn't even ask me to help her move._

He thought back to their argument today; their disagreement was no trivial matter. He'd demanded that she divulge she considered state secrets even though she'd vowed that doing so would place Vulcan in jeopardy. The two had negotiated to common ground: she hinted at Romulan involvement and he didn't push for more information. The information was a day later than he would've liked, but he didn't hold a grudge against her.

He hoped she didn't hold any against him.

_I wonder if that's why she moved without telling me._

Exhaling slowly, he made his way into his room and changed clothes into something casual – jeans and a T-shirt. After looking at his reflection in the mirror, he noted how comfortable he felt.

For the past three nights, he'd been in his uniform way too long; the thing weighed him down with responsibility and duty. It encroached on friendships, demanded answers and ordered people into harm's way.

Looking at his uniform laying on his bed, he then picked it up and tossed it into the hamper with a grunt.

* * *

T'Pol put the finishing touches on her place by lighting candles around her rooms. Satisfied at the flicker against the wall, she breathed in the soothing aroma – tly'ek, a flower grown on Mt. Selaya, known for serenity.

The one-bedroom/one-bath apartment had already been fully furnished. It came with a large bed and silks draped around it like mosquito netting, as well as a deep-tub that she could practically lie down, submerging her entire body. The wall colors had been painted by the owner: deep reds with gold flecks. And earlier that day, she'd bought pillows of rich hues to place on her floor like any Vulcan home would have.

Closing her eyes, she hugged the satiny material of her robes closer to her.

_Home. _

A buzz frazzled her concentration. Making her way to an intercom, she leaned over.

"Yes?" she asked to the small silver device.

"It's me," Archer said, his voice echoing in the lobby.

"I'm in number 2302."

Giving her apartment one last walkthrough, as if hoping to catch something out of place, she eventually nodded with approval and then glided back into the living room to fluff the pillows before the doorbell rang.

"Hello," she said, opening the door.

He didn't smile.

"Why didn't you tell me you'd found a place?" he asked. He shrugged off his jacket and without prompting, she hung it up in a nearby closet.

"I only discovered it earlier today. And given our discussion this afternoon, I thought it best not to bring this up."

He blew out a long breath and she watched his face change expressions. "Listen, about today--"

"Jonathan, I thought we were done with that discussion."

When he was about to challenge her, she stopped him. "I meant, I think we understand one another."

"We haven't had a disagreement in a while."

"A year and two weeks to be exact."

He chuckled at the comment and finally looked around her room. Going up to the large window in the living room, he looked out at the San Francisco skyline and mindlessly rubbed the sand-colored draped between his fingers. Turning, squinting his eyes at the low lighting, thanks to the plentiful candles, he smiled.

"This place reminds me of Vulcan," he said.

"It does me as well."

She showed him around each room, watching his bemusement at the candles that surrounded the large sunken tub and the small smile that played on his lips as he curiously wandered around rooms. He opened closed doors, poked his head into nooks and crannies and finally nodded as if the place passed his inspection. It was as if no attention to detail escaped his notice.

"Do you like it?"

"Yeah, it's nice. It's definitely more … uhm … feminine than my apartment," he said.

"It makes sense that your abode is more masculine. You _are_ a man."

The comment earned her a blank look, which made a smile form in her eyes. She got him.

She offered him something to drink and eat, but let him fix his own plate of lentils, rice and bread. The two sat Indian style on the pillows of her living room and talked about how she came by the apartment in the first place and how she'd bought it fully furnished from a Vulcan – an anthropologist – leaving the area. As the discussion wore on, the captain had stretched out propping himself up on one elbow.

"Jonathan, you're not upset are you?"

Shifting his weight, he put his head against his hand. "About what?"

"That I left your apartment."

"No. We both agreed you could stay with me until you got your bearings." He spooned a small portion of food into his mouth. "It just … seems like you were in a rush to leave."

"A rush?"

"You found a new place and moved out in less than six hours."

"Eight hours."

He pushed the food aside. "All right. Eight."

"I assure you that it had nothing to do with our conversation today."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Then why the rush?"

Leaving the spoon in her dish, she looked up at him. Although she didn't want to tell him the truth, it appeared it was the wisest thing to do; it would save him from thinking he had offended her. Slowly and deliberately, she spoke.

"Our cohabitation …. My aid suggested that several members of the Council believed the two of us have been … intimately involved," she said.

Choking, he wheezed out a: "What!"

"I believe you heard me."

"Why?"

"Because we were living together."

"We're friends."

"Staron indicated he saw me touch you."

"So?"

"I'm not defending their opinion, I'm merely indicating what Staron told me."

"That's what made you move?" His voice sounded a little incredulous.

"Yes."

As she dug into her meal, she heard Archer speak quietly. "You don't like the implication."

"No. Do you?"

"I don't care what they think. Why do you?"

"Unlike you, I need to earn their respect."

"T'Pol, I think you already have it."

"Soval had it, I do not. Not yet."

"That's not true, Gral admires you and respects you. I think the Xindi ambassador does as well."

"To represent Vulcan, I need for _everyone _to feel that way."

"You think living on your own will command their respect?"

"No, I think showing some independence will."

"Independence … like distancing yourself from me?"

"Perhaps. Living in my own apartment seemed like an appropriate step to take."

"Do you need any more distance?"

She quipped a brow at him, and he re-asserted himself.

"It sounds like you're asking for space."

The blank expression she gave him made him continue. "Ever since you've gotten here, we've been spending most of our time together. We lived together, worked together--"

"Is that what you wish? More time to yourself?" she asked.

"No. No, I'm happy with the way things are … but … we're not talking about me."

"Taking up my own residence should suffice for now."

"It won't hurt my feelings … if that's what concerns you."

"Of course."

Nodding, he picked up his bowl and scooped some dinner into his mouth. As a frown worked onto his face, he placed his bowl on the ground again and shoved it forward. After serving under his command for ten years, she could read him all too well: despite his words, he was disappointed that their positions encroached on their friendship. It's why she spoke up.

"Vulcans have few close friends," she whispered.

"I have few close friends, too."

"I know."

Their eyes locked – both glimmering as if full of admiration … at least hers were. And because she'd known the human across from her so well, she gathered that was the emotion he felt as well.

"I support whatever you need to do," he said.

"I know that as well."

Averting his eyes, he stared back down at his food. "Dinner was great."

The intensity of the moment was gone and she gathered her bowl and took his back to the sink to be washed later. When she returned the lazy sprawl Archer's figure had taken during their meal reverted back to sitting Indian style, and this time his spine was straight not slouched.

As she was about to comment on it, he chitchatted about trivial matters including questioning the Xindi and Tellarite ambassadors. A smile formed on his lips as he went on about another topic, one that interested him.

"I got a communication from Shran late this afternoon."

She was quiet.

"He said he'd be here tomorrow."

"Yes, Ambassador Gral announced it."

"He should be at the Council meeting by noon …."

"I heard."

Leaning toward her a little, he asked, "Did you know that Shran was working in a secret organization for the general himself?"

"That doesn't matter."

"He might be able to explain more about the gem. It was a--"

"That doesn't matter."

"T'Pol--"

She flattened her lips and he begged off the topic. He said, "I know it upsets you that he'll--"

"Jonathan, a Vulcan--"

His eyes warred with hers. "I know it upsets you. But, you're going to have to interact with him."

"I realize that."

His eyebrows crept up against his hairline.

"I realize he will be Andoria's Ambassador." She reaffirmed stubbornly. "He may be your friend, but you won't convince me that he will ever be mine."

"I'm not trying to--"

"Oh?"

Sighing, he finally agreed. "You're right. I won't bring him up."

Staring, she dared him and noticed he capitulated truly, as if he wouldn't mention the Andorian's name around her again. As she was about to debate that Shran was the reason they'd encountered the Arali, the admiral glanced down at his watch.

"It's getting late," he said.

The two stood and Archer collected his jacket from the closet, wandering into it himself.

"Thank you for coming," she said.

He gave a lopsided smile. "Next time, just tell me you're leaving. I could've at least given you a hand."

"There was very little to move," she said.

Cramming his arm through one side, T'Pol thought about something she'd heard in the Council room. It was strange that Archer hadn't brought it up.

"I heard the details about the ceremony for the Columbia. It sounds … it sounds like an appropriate way to honor them."

The plan was to read the names of the victims in the courtyard between the Federation and Starfleet campuses. Admiral Gardner and President Gral had settled on that as a way for both organizations to show their support for the Columbia, and show their regret for the loss. There were also discussions about building a fountain, something that the Federation agreed to pay for, dedicated to the Columbia.

"Yeah," he said.

When he slowly put his arm into the other sleeve, she wondered what troubled him.

"I understand Captain Hernandez's funeral is in Arizona?"

"Yeah, it's in Phoenix."

"Are you going?"

"I don't know if I can get away."

Jerking on his jacket with one final tug and then zipping it, she noticed he avoided her gaze.

"Were you invited?" she asked, softly.

With a sad smile, he sighed. "I guess there's that, too."

"Perhaps you should attend anyway."

Her hands smoothed down his collar, all catawampus, flattening it against the tan material.

"No. I'm not going to do that to Erika's family," he said.

"It could've been an oversight."

"No."

"I've heard that frequently during difficult times, humans forget--"

"You didn't see the look that Erika's mother gave me. You didn't see the pain." He stared at his feet.

T'Pol fell silent.

"I can understand it," he said.

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay."

As she was about to open her mouth to say more on the subject, he cut her off. "You got a nice place here."

"You may come any time."

The comment sunk in, as if he understood the distance she'd been suggesting wasn't really what she wanted. The woman had few friends, and the man in front of her was no doubt her best friend.

"Thanks for dinner," he said. With that, he gave her a small peck on the cheek and left.

T'Pol slowly closed the door and watched the ground. Perhaps she could understand Erika's mother's anger, although it seemed focused at the wrong person. It should've been focused on the Orions, Arali and Romulans.

_Illogical._

Swallowing deeply, as she made her way to the kitchen to wash the dishes, she wondered if her own anger about Trip's death was focused on the wrong man.

Her fingers traveled along the smooth, clay edge of the bowl. Although it had been possibly unfair to blame Shran, at least could give the perpetrator – the man who'd killed Trip - a name and a face when fury boiled her blood.

_Perhaps it has been unjust, but … satisfying._

It was something she'd meditate on tonight. Perhaps resolving this would help release her from emotions like anger, self-doubt and pain.

Making her way to her bathroom, she turned the water on to fill the tub and lit the candles around it. Before slipping off her clothes, she walked to the mirror and picked up a brush – engaging in a ritual she did every night. Stopping, checking her reflection, she stared at her cheek and then let the brush glide down her hair.

TBC

* * *

A/N: Yes, next time expect to see Shran. I love that guy!  



	11. Chapter 11

A/N: Firebird, really? Sorry, I thought I'd already revealed that T'Pol was pissed at Shran. She blames the blue guy for, basically, killing Trip. I thought it made sense given her mistrust of him already in TATV and the fact that … well … Trip died.

Hmm, I'm wondering if readers aren't terribly confused. Don't be afraid to chime in if so.

Dennis, don't worry!

* * *

Twenty admirals were crammed into the conference room where T'Pol spoke only days ago. This time, the business at-hand was more serious. After determining the Romulans were behind the attack on the Columbia, Gardner had convened an emergency meeting to discuss. The topic was vague enough to include military ones. 

As Archer crossed his legs, ankle on his knee, he looked at his watch. Gardner was twenty minutes late, and the air in the room smelled stale – like the sweat from fifteen men mixed with the perfume from five women. And yet it felt electric; at first, they silently convened – almost all afraid to breathe – huddling to a chair keeping their mouths clamped as if holding onto a secret. Now, the room rumbled, growing noisier by the minute. Admiral McManus, a Scot who'd been in Engineering all his life, managed to shout just slightly louder than Admiral Gray who typically never raised her voice to anyone. Even Archer felt compelled to add his two cents as he heard Duvall expound on the virtues of sending more military vessels into space.

Finally, just as the decibel of the room reached a deafening thunder, Matt Gardner walked in and suddenly, the room went completely still; it even took a few moments for them to remember protocol – standing for a superior officer. When Admiral Grady finally shuffled in his chair to stand, Matt pushed his hands down before the man could finish the task.

"No need," Gardner said.

A grimace spread across Matt's usually congenial face. Standing erect, chest puffed, he widened his legs and shoved his hands behind his back in a military pose. His speech was clipped; it meant to Archer his superior was pissed.

"By now you've heard that we've confirmed that the Romulans, the Arali and the Orions were working together to attack the Columbia.

"I just got back from a meeting with Prime Minister Pelletier and Ambassador Simon. The Prime Minister has chosen to dispatch Simon to Romulus to meet with them, the Arali and the Orions leaders."

Archer immediately uncrossed his legs and squirmed in his seat.

"Jon, you wanted to say something?"

Archer said, "Meeting on neutral territory would be the best --"

"Admiral, your Commander-in-Chief is the Prime Minister. When he gives an order, you're bound to follow it."

Unfettered, Archer asked one more question. "What are they hoping to gain?"

Matt gave a quiet sigh. "I think they want to hold onto peace just a little longer. Ambassador Simon has a good track record with the Council. He's helped negotiate key treaties with several other planets."

Although Archer wasn't questioning his expertise, now that it was brought to light, he thought Simon was the last man he'd send. The guy was mousy and the mission was too critical. This was an effort in futility.

Gardner continued. "I've looked at the docked ships we have in the fleet to escort Neville Simon. Sarah, is the Yorktown ready to launch?"

A 60-year old woman with long blonde hair shook her head. "Just got a report this morning. Engine trouble. She won't be ready for another month. I could--"

"No, it's okay. Are there any ships within a day's range?" Matt asked.

"We could recall the Endeavor," Sam Franklin said. "Although the data they're researching in the Thozan sector could prove beneficial for scientists in the advancement of various cancers."

"Thanks, Sam. I'll keep it under advisement. Jon, what about the Potomac?" Gardner asked.

Archer froze; that ship fell under his chain of command.

Gardner said, "We have our culprit, which means she's done with her investigation. She's got plenty of speed and a good weapon's array." Reviewing his PADD, he added, "According to Captain Richards last calculations, she could get here in a little over a day."

Jon was silent.

"Admiral Archer?"

Admiral Duvall spoke up. "The Excelsior is only 22.8 hours from Earth. I'd like to recommend them."

Gardner turned his attention to the barrel-chested red head. "The captain's Mallory, right?"

"That's right, sir."

"We just promoted him. I'd like a more seasoned man to handle this one."

"Sir, I was going to recommend for a task of this magnitude that one of the admiral's accompany him."

"Who?" Matt asked.

"Me, sir."

Gardner raised his eyebrows. "All right. Give the orders right away." Looking over at the crowd, he concluded the meeting. "Dismissed."

As everyone filed out, Archer heard his name being called and turning, he saw two fingers calling him over. Halting his step, he waited as Matt met him, closed the door and frowned.

"Yes, sir?" Archer said.

"Everyone in the room could tell you don't agree with the Prime Minister."

"I'm sorry, sir, but I don't."

"And I don't care. Hell, I don't like the order."

"I could tell," Archer said quietly.

Matt shook his head, sneering. "You don't like politics. But, you'll learn soon enough that's the way it is. I advised the prime minister and he made another call. I have to follow my orders, and so do you."

"Sir, permission to speak freely?"

Matt reluctantly nodded. "Go ahead."

"We have an Orion spy in our brig. They fired on a vessel with the intent to destroy after she hailed them repeatedly to surrender. These people don't want peace."

"So you'd have us blindly head off into war?" Matt asked.

"No, sir. If we're going to negotiate with them, though, we have to act like we have every right to go to war. We have to act like we're also going to win it. It's the only, currently, tactical advantage we have. Asking them permission and going to Romulus on their terms!" Archer lowered his voice. "The Excelsior will be lucky if it makes it back with its crew."

Matt scowled and Archer could tell he hated sending anyone in there. "You didn't want the Potomac to go, did you?"

"No, sir," Archer said.

The answer obviously surprised Gardner, and he exhaled slowly as if restraining some anger and yet, Archer wondered if the man felt the same way.

Matt said, "Dismissed."

Turning his back, Archer marched out of the conference room and into his office. When he threw himself into his chair, he leaned forward nearly contacting the Vulcan ambassador. There was nothing to share, other than his complete disagreement with his own government's stance. But, that wasn't his role and he didn't dare reveal his true feelings, even if she was his best friend.

* * *

T'Pol walked into the Federation Council room at noon and rather than seeing the mild chitchat between the council members, she saw exuberant smiles and heard excited voices chatting with a small blue man dressed in black leather. His antennae wiggled, reacting to the happy diplomats, and the smile he wielded indicated he loved the attention.

It figured.

Sitting at the table, ensuring she was separated from the commotion, her eyes perused Shran. He wore an emblem on his black jacket – the Order of the Tarmera. It appeared Jonathan was correct: he'd been in the secret organization to serve the General. That mission, having been done, had earned him a medal and very probably a job as the Andorian Ambassador.

During her meditation last night, as she'd tried to find solace about Shran and his appointment, she'd called up one single image: his cocky grin – a smirk that seemed to swallow his entire face. It had been the one he'd worn many times in the past when asking for Archer's help. It had been there when they'd met him in the Expanse. It'd been the same one he'd worn during the punishment he'd given the Vulcan priests on P'Jem.

She decided it was permanently etched onto his face as if he considered himself the most important man alive – always had been.

As she stewed quietly to herself, she noticed he made a beeline for her while the smirk grew, spreading across his features. It raised her ire almost immediately.

"Vulcan!" he said. The warm greeting was met purposefully with an icy stare.

"My name is T'Pol, Shran," she said.

"You're mad at me," he stated. His antennae drooped pathetically. "Archer warned me you might be mad."

An eyebrow barely flinched. "Both of you are incorrect. You cannot anger a Vulcan."

"You and I both know that's not true," he said. "I've ticked you off many times before."

She was quiet, so he responded again losing some of his vibrato. "The Pink Skin has forgiven me for everything. I was hoping you could, too."

She didn't comment, but became annoyed that his entourage, the other ambassadors, began circling her to pay him homage. He looked around and with one sweep of his gloved hand shooed them away. It was a bizarre sight, and she'd never have guessed that women like Sera, the Xindi ambassador, could be so awestruck by one man.

"Archer told me how much Tucker meant to you," he said. "I didn't know the Arali would cost him his life. If there's anything I can do--"

She released a slow breath. "_Everyone _on Enterprise was important to me. It was my duty as first officer."

"When Talas died, I'd lost all hope. But, I forgave Gral and eventually found Jhamel and took her as my wife; I've been happy ever since. Besides, Gral wasn't responsible for pulling the trigger to the phase pistol that killed her. It was an accident, and some of it was my fault."

"Are you suggesting that Trip's death was _my _fault?"

"No."

"Then what is the point to your story?"

His eyes narrowed. "If I were still mad at Vulcans for the years of torture that I'd endured in one of your prisons, I wouldn't be here. If I were still irate that you and the Pink Skin overloaded the Xindi weapon in my cargo bay, I wouldn't have shown up. And if I still held a grudge against Archer for cutting off my antennae, I wouldn't be here talking to you."

She knew the two men held an irrational admiration for each other. Rather than give in to his ego, she bantered with him. "It _is _unsettling that for such a large universe our paths continue to cross."

"T'Pol, you know we're going to have to work together."

She didn't respond.

His antennae reared a little and as he turned, under his breath, he mumbled how stubborn Vulcans were.

Bewildered, she stared at him almost incredulous that those words had come from his mouth. Instead of yelling across the forum, she fumed quietly in her chair.

Staron finally joined her side.

"Your emotions," he whispered, leaning in.

"I am aware," she said. She eyed Shran who was sitting across the table. He'd given her a smirk, the one she hated in an obvious attempt to charm her. When she turned her nose up to him, denying him the privilege, he began conversing with the other ambassadors.

Staron started speaking, shaking her from her fury. "If I may be so bold, you seem to have two incidents that upset you: comments about your deceased friend Commander Tucker or about Admiral Archer."

"They are my friends."

Staron was about to say more when Gral entered. Instead of greeting the ambassadors as he normally did, he immediately stopped and stroked his belly as he shouted the new Andorian ambassador's name.

"Shran!"

The blue man tried to look humble, and failed by the narrowest of margins.

"Shran, the Council is supposed to invite you in, but … we can overlook that."

His antennae wiggled jubilantly. "I appreciate that, President."

"You have a speech?"

Shran gave a sharp nod as T'Pol felt her eyes inadvertently roll.

Unfolding a piece of paper as he walked to the front, he squinted at it and then beamed at the group.

"My name is Ambassador Shran. I've served in the Imperial Guard for more than forty years, have a wife, one child and … one on the way. I'm pleased to accept my role as ambassador. It's an opportunity that I, as a soldier, never thought I'd fulfill. Of course, I'll do my best to uphold Federation law while serving my planet."

As everyone was about to clap, his hand crumpled the paper as he spoke from his heart. One of his hands inadvertently made his way up to where the human diaphragm would be and his voice choked.

"If anyone had told the young boy from Temek that he was going to serve his planet to one day work on behalf of his government, he would've laughed in your face!"

T'Pol shot a glance to Staron who also seemed perplexed.

"Of course, I was a criminal then – petty crimes like theft mostly. But, around the age of ten, my Uncle Shev introduced me to the life I know now – one that accepts the harrowed existence of war while embracing the serenity of peace."

Gral put his hands together – almost to clap, when Shran interrupted, warning him the speech wasn't over.

"Not quite, President."

"Shran …?"

As if skipping ahead to the meat of his message, he finally sighed. "Very well. If you're so insistent to get on with business, I'd like to thank everyone who brought me here – you, my wife Jhamel, my signet (which T'Pol gathered was the nickname for his child) and the General."

Gral clapped as Shran reluctantly took his seat.

"That was longer than the parting speech Soval provided," he said.

Shran frowned.

"Welcome, Shran – Ambassador to Andoria." Gral's smile left his face. "We have news to discuss."

The delegates all settled in and Gral leaned over the table, his small legs kicking helplessly under him attempting to touch the floor.

"The humans have confirmed that the third vessel that attacked on the Columbia was – the Romulans."

A commotion immediately emerged, but it was Shran who stood up first. His hands leaned on the conference table heavily.

"Something has to be done," he said. The assuredness of his voice, and yet the hesitation to do something too bold almost impressed T'Pol.

"Of course _something_ should," she said. "The question is what is an appropriate measure?"

Gral grunted, as if pleased that his long-time friends both spoke so wisely. "Ambassador Simon has more to say on this matter."

The skinny, almost frail ambassador pushed up his glasses and made his way to the front.

"The Prime Minister and I spoke, including Admiral Gardner. We discussed many options. Since this is an Earth matter, we choose to negotiate this ourselves. I will negotiate the treaty myself on Romulus."

Chaos erupted and each of the ambassadors began talk.

Almost immediately, Sera, the Xindi, stood. "Neville, your path is futile!"

Even T'Pol felt herself tense.

Shran made the loudest argument, silencing the others. "I understand that Earth has suffered greatly, but each member here today has suffered from the Orions and the Arali. A measured response must be taken, or they must negotiate on _our _terms. To go to Romulus is a fool's mission!"

Neville leveled his gaze. "Ambassador, I understand you're new to the art of negotiation, but the idea is to actually … discuss advantages."

Shran's antennae squirmed out of control. "You don't know the Romulans. Surely, you've discussed this with Admiral Archer--"

Neville's lips curled up into a snarl. "Archer is not like his father. He's not a scientist, he's a military commander."

Shran pointed to the man. "He's experienced with these aliens. You aren't."

Gral smiled at the debate.

"Archer is a blowhard. Policy isn't decided on his advice; Earth has elected Pelletier."

T'Pol felt herself rise. "You would be wise to listen to the counsel of Admiral Archer. As the only human who has encountered the Romulans--"

"I grow tired of your blind devotion to your boyfriend."

As she stumbled for words, she was amazed Shran rushed to her defense. "Ambassador T'Pol has the second most experience with the Romulans. Her experience is invaluable, Neville."

The wiry man tried to explain his position when Shran cut him off again. "Just be clear on one thing, _ambassador,_ your way is folly and you'll pay for it with your life. By dismissing the experience of the people you've made responsible for suggesting protocol and discussing alien culture to you, you mark yourself as an idiot. If you die, we have no use for you."

T'Pol's mouth dropped. Gral's curled into a smile. Quiet broke out into the forum and T'Pol thought she could hear the two men pant, breathing so hard they could hardly stand in place.

Neville shook his head. "You were a mistake, Shran."

Shran laughed. "You _are_ an idiot."

Before more could be said, and T'Pol suspected the President let Shran have the final word, he threw his hands in front of him.

"I'd like to take a vote on whether the Federation condones Ambassador Simon's actions."

As T'Pol stared into Shran's eyes, she was the first to speak out. "I do not agree."

Shran smiled. "Neither do I."

Sera, Merah, Bagdol and nearly the entire Council chimed in and in the end only two people agreed with Simon – Simon himself and Xemax, the Denobulan ambassador.

Gral grinned and snorted. "So noted," he said.

Simon added almost right away a few words. "We didn't ask for the Council's approval."

Shran frowned. "I suggest we discuss the predicament with our governments."

"I concur," T'Pol said.

Shran gave her a sardonic smile and for the first time she could remember, she held his gaze and nodded. Although she hadn't forgiven him, it made sense to act as allies.

Gral nodded. "It's decided. We'll adjourn until our meeting with him at 1500. It should prove to be a late night. Thank you."

T'Pol and Staron made a beeline for her office. The aid, following closely at her heels, said, "You seem distressed by the news."

She was glad she seemed surprise; she didn't want anyone to know she delivered the information to Archer herself.

"I _am_ distressed by the news."

"The Romulans. I am unaware of who they are."

"They are a warlike culture – intensely private and territorial. If they are allied with the Arali and the Orions it means they could present a challenge to the Federation."

"Why would they have reason to attack us?"

"That, Staron, remains to be answered. Perhaps they are looking to gain territory."

Staron pointed an eyebrow and she felt the need to explain as they made it into her office. "Not everyone desires peace. There _are_ some who profit from war. During war great improvements are made in technology, sciences, communications--"

"You sound like you agree with them?"

T'Pol removed her outer cloak. "Of course not. But having seen how advanced the Romulans are, I wonder if they are in a constant state of improvement through hostility."

"You have seen the Romulans?"

T'Pol's head tilted to the side. "Why do you ask?"

"Pardon me?"

"Why do you ask whether I've seen the Romulans. Does that matter?"

"You said they were intensely private. I assumed no one had seen them."

Suspiciously, she made her way over to her desk. "I have seen their ship. It looks like a ka'rav'ta."

"A ship that looks like a bird?"

"Yes. One with giant talons." Staron stood in his spot and she tried to alleviate any signs of distress. Looking toward her monitor, she asked her assistant to pardon himself so that she may contact the Minister.

When he did, and the door was closed, T'Pol placed the call and reported to T'Pau the news about the Romulans was out. As they continued their discussion, T'Pol found herself peppering her leader with questions about Staron – none of which she knew. Almost like a broken record, she pointed her to ask Soval indicating he'd served with the young man the longest. Closing the communication with T'Pau, she wondered whether Admiral Archer agreed with the assessment to send Neville. She could only hypothesize he didn't.

For just a moment, she almost called him to ask. Clenching her fist, she decided to ask him at the end of his day … if at all.

TBC


	12. Chapter 12

A/N: Glad to see there's universal hatred of Neville.

* * *

The tension in the air of the Federation Council Chamber was sharp and hot, causing goose bumps to cascade down T'Pol's arms. Even the Vulcan's mood was overly alert. It was an odd twinge of suspicion regarding her aid, Staron, a feeling that had been there since the very beginning … since her first meeting with the young man. Although she hadn't had a chance to call Soval before the Federation Council session reconvened, she'd made a mental note to contact him tonight at her apartment and out of his hearing range. She had to glean the aid's background and determine whether Staron was a Romulan passing himself off as a Vulcan as apparently some of the warlike race had done on her home planet.

Sitting down carefully at her place at the large oval table, she heard Sera talk quietly.

"By the gods, why would anyone allow Neville to do this?"

The Vulcan closed her eyes. "I don't know."

"I never imagined the Prime Minister such a fool," she said.

T'Pol remained stoically quiet, but agreed silently. Pelletier was an honest and decent man who'd spent his life serving his people. Although peaceful, he didn't seem like the type of man to back away from a fight.

"You've talked with your minister?" Sera asked.

T'Pol nodded slowly. "Yes."

"What did she say?"

T'Pol opened her eyes and then took a long breath. "When President Gral bring up the topic, I will convey our position then."

Sera said, "We recommend an attack, we are willing to dedicate our resources to do so, even if it's alone."

The Vulcan's eyes fell to her lap. "If the Earthlings have taken the first step, in some cases we are bound to see what will happen."

"But, you know it will be failure," Sera said.

"The situation certainly appears grim."

Staron came up behind them, interested in the conversation. "Ambassador T'Pol, I assumed you would wait for me."

"I wanted to ensure I wasn't late to the meeting," she said.

When he was about to answer her, Gral walked in with Shran. Everyone clamored for their chairs and sat quietly hanging on the edge of their chairs to give their planet's recommendations.

Stroking his belly, the Tellarite looked over the group. "I assume everyone has talked with their governments?"

A low agreement could be heard from every member of the Council.

"Let us hear from each ambassador," Gral said. "The Tellarites will go first. Although we consider the humans important allies, we are recommending sanctions against Earth for their impetuous behavior. Further action from Earth and we move to ban them from the Council."

Neville rose. "That is ludicrous! We _created _this Council." There was a small hubbub to that remark, but he continued. "Our ship was destroyed, not yours, President. The Columbia asked _repeatedly _for surrender. Everyone in this room heard it!"

"And yet you want to negotiate with these people on _their _terms," Shran said.

"From everything Starfleet has learned about these people, they are terrorists without mercy. It makes sense for us to take slow steps."

President Gral silenced Neville and pointed to Shran. "What do the Andorians think?"

"We like the Tellarites have always considered Earth an ally. We were the only planet to help them during the mission to destroy the Xindi weapon, no offense Ambassador Sera." She shook her head. "And still -- we are displeased with the actions taken. Andoria demands Earth reconsider."

"That's it?" Gral asked.

"Yes. Andoria frowns on further actions and believes Earth will stop these negotiations until they receive backing from this Council."

"Skinny, what does Vulcan say?" Gral asked.

T'Pol flattened her lips. "The Vulcans think peace is an alternative, but recommend the negotiation take place on neutral ground. We have several suggestions for appropriate locations. We also have a list of people we approve to negotiate this treaty."

"You're saying you don't recommend me?" Neville said, angrily.

"You were not our first choice."

Gral held up his hand to silence both parties. "Ambassador Sera?"

"The Xindi have had cargo ships fired on, just as the Andorians, Vulcans, and many of the races here have by these terrorists. We believe something should be done. We're ready to commit our own resources to retaliate. It's obvious we cannot achieve peace."

"Ambassador Bagdol?" Gral asked.

"The Rigelian are mixed. We've been allies with the Orions, and yet we have suffered in trade because of their actions. We, like the Vulcans, recommend peace on neutral ground. We also have a list of ambassador candidates, and although Ambassador Simon isn't our top choice, we would find satisfaction with him if one of the Rigelian were also allowed to attend."

"I would be honored to have a Rigelian attend," Neville said.

Gral grunted and then pointed to the Veral. "Ambassador Merah?"

"The Veral also recommend peace on neutral ground. I have not seen Ambassador T'Pol's recommendation, but I would like to review it. I believe we have similar concerns."

T'Pol raised her brows. "Of course."

"Ambassador Xemax?" Gral called.

The woman's face split into a grotesque smile. "The Denobulan haven't been warriors for many years and are somewhat out of practice. Denobula does not forget that Neville Simon helped Nathan Samuel to convene this Council. We had faith in him then, and we have faith in him now."

Simon smiled. "Thank you, Ambassador. I'm glad _someone _remembers."

"It was called a Coalition." Shran rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath, just loud enough for everyone to hear, "Living on glory from seven years ago."

Gral coughed, suppressing a laugh, and then pointed to Darag. "My friend, Ambassador Darag?"

"We concur with the Tellarites," he said. He stroked his white beard and focused his amber eyes on Gral. "You have spoken wisely."

"Ambassador Demvar?" Gral asked.

The gentleman from Coridan shook his head. "We side with the Andorians. They helped us re-establish peace on our planet, freeing us from our oppressive government." His eyes inadvertently found T'Pol's, as if he meant the Vulcans.

"Ambassador Kator?" Gral asked.

His voice shook with age. "Negotiation seems wise. We would be interested in the Vulcan's plan."

"Ambassador Trin?"

The young woman stood demurely. "President Gral speaks well. Earth is not the only race to suffer. Although our government has found the work of Ambassador Simon impressive, we will agree to sanctions."

"And Ambassador Nezfar?"

He hesitated. "The Yalans would agree with Ambassador T'Pol."

Gral spoke up. "I have noted that there seems to be consensus with Ambassador T'Pol's proposal to negotiate on neutral ground."

There was murmuring, until Gral cleared his throat.

"Other proposals on the table are sanctions against Earth. I would, on behalf of Tellar like to see those added to the Vulcan's proposal. Are there any objections?"

"What would the sanctions be?" T'Pol asked.

Shran asked, "You would place sanctions against Earth, Vulcan?"

T'Pol gave an almost unperceivable frown. "Earth needs to remember they are not the ones who decide inter-galactic policy; the Federation does. Sanctions may help them recall this in the future and not react so hastily."

A sharp tongue clucking could be heard from Neville as he voiced his disproval.

Shran nodded as his antennae drooped. "Go ahead, Gral."

Gral started. "Tellar would like to see the following – 100,000 credits to be paid to the Council, a daily briefing from Starfleet Federation and … the removal of the current ambassador."

A hush fell over the room.

Neville pounded his fist in anger. "This is a disgrace!"

Shran shook his head. "You have no idea how much I'd like to agree to those terms, but Andoria can't accept."

Demvar, Xemax, Bagdol all agreed.

"The removal of an ambassador simply because we do not agree with the actions of his government sets a dangerous precedent," T'Pol said.

Gral nodded. "I know. This decision was difficult for the Tellarites."

"I am uncertain that Vulcan could approve of every sanction mentioned. We support trade and monetary sanctions."

Trin, Kator and Merah agreed.

"Shran could you support trade or monetary sanctions?" Gral asked.

"Andoria doesn't support any sanctions against our allies," Shran said.

Demvar, Xemax and Bagdol agreed again.

Gral nodded. "And the rest?"

Everyone else, other than Neville, seemed to support sanctions if they were limited to trade or monetary sanctions. Consensus was made, and Gral gave a little snort asking his aid to write the verdict down.

"Sanctions have been approved, pending amounts and trade embargos."

Shran's antennae drooped.

"Ambassador Shran, it looks like you lost your first fight," Gral said, a little too cheerily.

"Only because my heart wasn't in it."

"Ambassador Simon, you can take everything you heard today to your Prime Minister," Gral said.

"I will." Neville sneered. "But, it won't change his mind. Starfleet has a ship allocated to us and we embark tomorrow at 0700." He looked around the room. "We have no objections to other planets sending a representative along. Ambassador Bagdol, if you wish to come along."

T'Pol rose a sharp eyebrow. "Do you think that's wise?"

"Earth, unlike Vulcan, trusts its allies," Neville said.

Shran said, "Don't be foolish."

T'Pol said, "There is a prisoner in the Starfleet brig, one we thought was a representative of Andoria."

Bagdol frowned. "You're questioning if I'm me?"

T'Pol said, "Every one on this Council should be considered a spy. It is in the Council's best interest to treat each other with circumspect."

"I thought Admiral Archer was in charge of that investigation," Bagdol said.

"Because our attention is demanded here, there hasn't been time," she said.

"I didn't realize you were receiving personal updates on the investigation," Neville said.

T'Pol's brow furrowed.

Bagdol said, "My aid indicates you were questioned. In fact, you were questioned right before the information about Romulus came to light."

She stared at the young man fumbling for words. Shran spoke up, although for an instant, he seemed to question her falter.

"I've known Ambassador T'Pol for more than ten years. She wouldn't mislead this Council, if that's what you're implying, Ambassador Bagdol."

"Of course not," Bagdol said. "However, shouldn't we all be suspicious?"

"In this case it was merely coincidence," Shran said. "Isn't that right, Ambassador?"

T'Pol gave a brief nod, careful not to actually speak. How they interrupted that nod, she reasoned, was up to them.

"We're getting no where." Gral snorted. "It's been a long day and our nerves are all frayed. Ambassador Simon, since you leave tomorrow, do you have a replacement?"

"My aid will stand in my place."

Gral gave a grunt at the red-haired, freckled kid that sat beside Neville. "Stanley Madison?"

The young man's voice gave a nervous crack. "You can call me Stan."

Shran shook his head. "How old are you?"

"Twenty-three."

T'Pol looked at him and then at Gral. "I recommend Earth rethink their delegate."

"I have plenty of experience," Stan said. "I majored in inter-galactic affairs from Georgetown where I was a teacher's assistant. I'm in all the staff briefings with Ambassador Simon and--"

"Mr. Madison, those things don't qualify as experience," T'Pol said, gently. "Experience means you've actually performed the job."

The young man's face turned down.

Neville intervened. "Stan is Earth's choice."

Before any more could be said, Gral adjourned the meeting. T'Pol decided a well-placed call to Gardner was in order to stop whatever travesty Earth was about to unleash. As everyone stood, Sera leaned into T'Pol.

"I haven't heard from the Ambassador almost since I've been here, but … suddenly he's been very vocal."

It had already raised T'Pol's suspicions and she couldn't help but nod. "I'm concerned as well."

Sera narrowed her eyes, looked at Neville once more, and then turned to leave the room. T'Pol's eyes stayed on the man as well. Something about his manner seemed too pleased to risk his life; for such a mouse, as Admiral Archer would've called him, one would think he wouldn't be so eager to go.

If Neville was leaving the next morning, perhaps Admiral Archer would have time to question him before he left. As the Vulcan stood, Staron asked her a question.

"I think we should send someone from Vulcan along with Ambassador Simon."

T'Pol shook her head. "Staron, Ambassador Simon's plan will never succeed."

"I volunteer to go."

"It will be your doom. Rethink your offer."

Stubbornly, he shook his head. "I overheard Minister T'Pau indicating it would be wise for us to send someone to watch the proceedings and provide reports."

"How do you know?"

"I overheard your conversation earlier."

"Staron, my conversations with our minister are private."

"You know, as well as I, male Vulcan hearing is difficult to muffle. I did not intend to eavesdrop."

"I will not assign you."

"Then, I volunteer."

"It's denied."

"Then I will make my request to Minister T'Pau. Perhaps she will grant it."

T'Pol blinked as her aid, so Vulcanly, strode away with purpose. Giving a frustrated sigh, she heard Shran behind her.

"The young are always impetuous – Vulcan, human, Andorian. It doesn't matter the species."

She leveled her gaze at him. "Vulcans are not impetuous."

He smiled. "You were. And it wasn't, for your species, that long ago."

"Do you want something?" she asked, almost irritably.

"I … I understand why Minister T'Pau chose you. Although I like Soval, I think you're a better choice."

She was silent.

"I …," he said. His antennae wiggled as if the words were hard for him to say, so he spit them out quickly. "I was impressed with you today." With that, he walked out as if he'd said nothing at all.

"Such hubris," she said to herself under her breath. And yet, she was pleased at his compliment.

* * *

Admiral Archer spent the early morning in his office reading and re-reading a report on his PADD, the one Shran sent as a "courtesy," while sucking the remainder of his coffee in one final gulp.

The report read:

"Ambassador Kirva'Tamor had served General Krag, the leader of the Andorian people, for approximately two years in the capacity of ambassador. Tamor served aboard the Kirama for three years, eventually earning a medal for his act of heroism during the Battle of Karan. His family all lived in the largest city on Andoria - Leran. He has no wife or children."

Archer thought, _Either Orions are really committed – passing themselves off as the Tamors for decades, if not centuries, or the "Ambassador Tamor" in the brig is an imposter._

The imposter theory surfaced from Malcolm, and studying the facts it seemed the most plausible. Reed also suggested that Tamor, the real ambassador, was killed at some point between receiving the accommodation on Andoria and arriving on Earth. Living in a new place where no one knew him, at least very well, was a real boon to this spy. It meant he had a certain freedom.

_Why did an Orion want others to think he was Andorian?_

Easy. Phlox had already told him that the Orions _could _pass themselves off as Andorians.

Then, there was the hollowed antennae Tamor had. They were an simple way to transmit and receive information. Malcolm already formulated that the spy sent communications via his transmitters to various communication buoys, which would relay the signal to its final destination making it harder to trace. In addition, these satellites he used were normal channels and weren't likely to cause a blip on anyone's radar; they were seen as low-level chatter mostly low security data streams. They weren't monitored or scanned.

It was the perfect communication vehicle.

If finding out why Tamor was passing himself off as an Andorian was easy, what he was communicating was much more difficult to determine. Because of the high volume of traffic to and from these satellites, their data was wiped clean daily. None of Tamor's communications were left; everything was gone. No records.

A dead end.

Frowning, Archer remembered there was a call he'd been putting off for some time to someone who, unfortunately, might be able to shed some light on the situation. Harris. Reluctantly, he punched the buttons at his console until an image of middle-aged man with dark hair and a MACO build appeared on his monitor.

"Archer," he said. The comment didn't sound like surprise.

"You were expecting me?" Archer asked.

"In a way. I figured you'd be hot on the trail, but run into some walls." Harris smiled. "And to answer you next question, our mutual friend didn't tell me."

It was obvious he meant Reed. "Meet me at the Arrow in thirty minutes."

"I only trade information, Admiral. I have what you want. What are you going to give me?"

Jon frowned. "I think we can work something out."

Harris smiled. "I think we can, too."

* * *

Thirty minutes gave Archer just enough time to get out of uniform, so he didn't draw any attention, and get across the bridge to the pier. Walking along the bayfront, he headed toward a sculpture of a golden bow and large red, feather-tipped arrow – Cupid's Arrow – in the middle as if harpooning the ground. The statue was built sometime in the late twentieth or early twenty-first century and had a certain nostalgia to Archer. As a boy, he'd been to that park a few times while holding a girl's hand, hoping to steal a kiss near the arrow. In truth, he'd always found the pier romantic – with the fog rolling over the bay and the brisk sea air. The girls he'd known usually found the sculpture to be dreamier. Hence it was the perfect place to take a date, not to mention that on a pilot's salary, being free meant it was affordable.

It was ironic this time he was meeting a man he detested.

When he got there Harris was already seated under the gigantic sculpture, beaming. Extending his large palm toward Archer, he stood up, and although Archer didn't want to greet him so warmly, he felt obliged to shake hands.

"What information do you want?" Archer asked.

"That was fast."

"I don't like to chit-chat."

"I want information about T'Pol."

Archer rolled his eyes. He'd been down this road with Malcolm before. "No."

"What was T'Pol doing before she came to Earth?"

"It's personal. Why are you so interested?"

"She used to be Starfleet. We like to keep tabs on our officers."

That was disturbing.

Harris added. "We don't keep tabs on all officers, just the aliens."

That meant only T'Pol.

"She vanished from your operative?"

"Out of our sight for almost a year. We didn't know she was here until after you did."

"Is that why you told Reed she was a spy?"

Harris shrugged. "It's hard to remember what we discuss."

Archer's lip curled.

Harris asked, "You want this information about the spy in the Starfleet brig?"

"I'm not telling you information about T'Pol."

"Then I suppose this meeting is over," Harris said.

Archer grabbed his arm. "Wait a minute. Maybe I can give you something else."

"Oh?" Harris asked. "I'm listening."

Archer sighed. "We know who attacked the Columbia."

"Who?"

Archer leaned in. "You tell me what I want to know about the spy."

Harris blinked several times over and licked his lips. Pointing to the concrete ridge that surrounded the statue, he sat down. "Make yourself at home, Jon."

Archer cringed at him using such a familiar tone, but sat down nonetheless.

"The spy in your brig is an Orion."

"We already know that. He's been using his antennae as a transmitter to send and receive communications."

Harris nodded. "The secret guard of the General found the real Ambassador Tamor's remains in an ice field on Andoria."

"Let me guess, Shran found him?"

"Good guess." Harris leaned back. "You want to know the scariest thing?"

Archer hesitated, but Harris spoke anyway. "We think that the Arali and Romulans have men disguised as aids or diplomats in the Council."

"Do you know which ones?"

"Tell me who attacked Columbia."

"We've known everything you'd told me so far. I want a short list, not the one Reed gave me, of the people you suspect."

Harris shook his head. "I'll tell you our number one suspect."

"How can I be sure you're telling me the truth?"

"One way to be sure is to tell me who attacked the Columbia first."

Archer sighed. Scanning left and right, he leaned in close. "The Romulans."

Harris' eyes went wide. "You're telling the truth."

"Tell me what I want to know."

"You played straight up with me, so I'll do the same for you. We have several suspects. The one we're looking at most closely? Xemax."

"Why the Denobulan?"

"Ask Dr. Phlox. He helped you with the Orion. I think he can help you here."

"How do you know--?"

Harris smiled. "I know a lot, just like I already knew about the Romulans."

Archer furrowed his brow. "Then why all this?"

"Because now you owe me."

"What--?"

"I'll call in that favor one day," Harris said.

Archer's heart pounded in his chest with foreboding and anger. He'd been played. In a way, he knew he would and yet he was surprised when it happened. Harris clapped him on the back and then wandered off, losing himself in the tourist crowd that had gathered at the edge of the pier on their way to the market less than a half-mile away. The admiral hung his head and wondered what his next step was.

TBC


	13. Chapter 13

A/N: Archangemon, you said, "Wait what ! he owes him huh ? what were who when ! so im confused so sue me but unless i missed something archer gave as good as he got an im sorry but the i already knew about the romulans line come on i mean come on aint that a bit i dont know blah. i mean blah. you that feeling you get when your exited an really hyped about something like its the mega super battle of the century the dude dodges right then left then fakes than he falls down."

Sorry you were confused. I'm not sure exactly what you mean here in your comment. But, here's what happened: Archer met with Harris, Harris strung Archer along (because Harris wants a favor in the future that plays a part in this story). Archer ultimately got what he wanted, the Section 31's prime spy suspect (although we all question what Harris says), but is beholden to Harris (that also plays a part in this story). In the end, Harris got the upper hand, which ticked Archer off.

And, yes, you already knew about the Romulans, but Archer wasn't sure Harris had known. I didn't explain this well (and I debated writing anything – that'll teach me), but the information about the Romulans was on the down low (meaning secret). Archer, against his better judgment, was willing to use it as a bargaining chip.

His ultimate goal, like the audience, is to determine who the spy is.

If I haven't answered your question, I apologize. But, keep watching – Harris will pop back up again … more than once. This is a long fic – think of it as a novel.

* * *

It was late, a little after 2100, when T'Pol entered the sanctum of her apartment. Drifting into her abode, she quickly lit all of her candles – the ones in her living room, bedroom, bathroom and the hallways in between. As the flames flickered into existence, sending a spicy aroma around the room, she breathed deeply. With the low lighting dancing off the ceilings and the moonless fall sky, she thought her home reminded her a little of the Vulcan monastery at P'Jem.

Making her way to the monitor in her bedroom at her desk, she sat down and made a call to an old friend. A visage of a gray-haired, brown-eyed man showed up on screen. His eyes twinkled right away.

"Ambassador T'Pol," Soval said.

"Minister Soval." Her eyes gleamed back. " I hope I did not disturb you?"

"Seeing you is never a disruption. T'Mara and I were just finished with dinner."

"You and your wife are well?"

"Yes. I believe T'Mara is … pleased … to be home. Being an Ambassador's wife on Earth had been difficult. And although she does not say so, it is good to be in the company of family again. It _is _good to be on Vulcan again, but I feel the absence of Earth."

"Your colleagues feel your absence as well."

He titled his head to one side and crinkled his eyes. "It is good of you to say."

"Your daughter, T'Sal?" she said. "Has she had the child?"

"She gives birth in approximately two months time. My wife is … highly anticipating that arrival."

"Minister T'Pau speaks well of you often, and how vital your services are to our planet," T'Pol said.

He responded. "She says the same about you. You are finding your position well-suited?"

Her mouth flattened and trembled only by the slightest fraction. "It's more challenging than I originally anticipated."

"Your friendship with Archer."

Surprise threatened to break her calm Vulcan exterior; he seemed to read her mind.

He said, "They often used it against me as well. Do not take their insults seriously; they are meant to unnerve you."

They were certainly working.

"If they unnerve you, they have power over you," he said.

"Some of these people I would consider allies, like the Denobulan ambassador – Xemax."

Soval pointed a brow in her direction. "You will learn that you have few true allies. As the great philosopher Mila said, 'There are two treacheries in life: betrayal and politics. Often, they are one in the same.'"

Considering the information, she folded her hands in her lap and wondered who exactly her friends were. Thinking for a moment, she hadn't realized Soval had been accused of preference for the admiral; although she knew that the Council members hadn't accused the two men of an intimate relationship, like they'd accused both she and Jonathan.

"You contacted me for something else?" Soval asked.

"Yes," she said, jolted from her silent reflection. "Staron."

"Your aide?"

"Given our _situation_ I had hoped to hear more about him."

Soval seemed to understand instantly because his eyes darkened a little and he looked over his shoulder as if to ensure the room he was in was vacant.

"Staron, in my opinion can be trusted. Although I have found him to be impatient, like someone else who used to be under my stewardship." His eyes focused on her.

The faintest of smiles, only perceivable to those closest to her, twitched onto her face and immediately off. "You know his family?"

"Yes. They are neither too traditional, nor too modern. They have adopted many of the old principles of the Kir'Shara while bringing the new ways with them."

"Staron questions me many times a day."

"He is eager to learn."

"He corrects my actions."

"He has the arrogance of youth and may still feel as he is my aide rather than yours."

"There is a delicate problem that has unraveled. Minister T'Pau has shared what the humans plan to do?" she asked.

"She has."

"Staron has volunteered to attend with Ambassador Simon."

Although the Vulcan appeared saddened, letting his shoulders dip, he shook his head. "T'Pol, you cannot protect him. He makes his own decisions. And I believe you know that he _could_ serve Vulcan in this matter."

She sighed. "You would entrust him to go?"

"I would."

"He is so young."

"You were his age when you served under me. You were placed in harm's way many times."

She stared down at her lap. That was true, she'd been younger than Staron when she'd been assigned to Soval's tutelage.

"You hesitate because you understand the consequences?" he asked.

Looking up at his face, she gave a slight nod.

"T'Pol, _that_ is the greatest challenge of being an ambassador. To do the wrong thing for the right reasons."

The words stung her.

"I thank you for your time," she said.

Soval said a few more words. "Minister T'Pau asked you to be ambassador because you understand the humans, much more so than I ever could."

"That's not true," she said.

"No," he sighed. "No, that is quite accurate. Your accent, the words you use, the emotion in your voice … you can identify with them."

She wasn't sure whether to be flattered or depressed by the statement.

"However, it is not your connection to the humans alone. You have ten years of experience on Enterprise, have helped negotiate the treaty with the Andorians and have served Vulcan loyally for many years. It is the entirety of who you are that earned you a place as ambassador."

"You're saying this to give me confidence?" she asked.

"I would not presume so. Confidence is an emotion. I am simply stating fact."

It was times like this she missed her old friend. "Thank you."

"I hope to hear from you again soon. Give Shran, Gral and Archer my regards. Live long and prosper," he said.

"Peace and long life, my friend," she said.

T'Pol switched off the monitor, wishing that Vulcans sometimes chatted like humans; it had been years since she'd worked and talked with Soval, really conversed.

Ruminating about her previous superior, she slipped out of her clothing and into a robe, closing it tightly to her body. She then walked toward the foot of her bed to unravel the her meditation mat and begin to reflect on Staron joining Ambassador Simon. Stretching herself out, she was about to begin with the doorbell chimed.

_Odd._

Getting up and peeping through the hole to see her visitor, she saw Archer on the other side of the door. By the condition of his hair – akimbo – and his pacing, she guessed he'd had a challenging day. She opened the door and immediately he stopped what he was doing and his jaw dropped marginally.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt anything," he said. "The people in 2359 said they knew you and they let me follow them in. I can come back--"

She looked down at her own robe, noticing that sparked his reluctance. "I wasn't asleep. Come in."

Hedging into her house, she watched his nose twitch and then he whipped his head back toward her. "You weren't meditating were you?"

"No." She shut the door when she noticed he stopped in her hallway.

"Jonathan--?" He was acting strangely, even for a human.

He didn't say anything, but shuffled his feet. As she stared, hoping he'd finally discuss what ever it was that bothered him, he finally started to speak – quiet though it was.

"God, this is going to come out all wrong," he whispered.

She waited.

"Never mind."

Poking an eyebrow up, she said, "Continue."

"You're not … oh, forget it."

"What--?"

He sighed. "Anyone else here?"

If she were human, she would've laughed. She must've produced a look that made him shrink, because his shoulders sagged a little under her scrutiny.

"I guess not." He sighed again. "I'm sorry. It's just …. The candles and the--"

"I had almost begun to meditate. I didn't want you to feel guilty."

He seemed a little relieved and produced a lopsided smile.

"What has flustered you so?" she asked.

He wiped his hand over his face. "I have something to tell you. Something you're not going to like."

She held out her hand as if offering him a seat and he did so. Gracefully, she sat next to him.

"Section 31 has been keeping tabs on you since you left Starfleet."

She breathed deeply and then blinked her eyes slowly. "I know. Minister T'Pau told me."

He dropped his head to his chest. "They started keeping files on alien officers who resigned their commission. You just happen to be the only one."

"You realize you shouldn't tell me." By revealing this to her, he'd violated part of article 14.

"Harris wants to know where you were before you came here."

She clarified her meaning, since he was set on continuing. "It's a violation to--"

"I don't care," he said.

"It's a court martial offense."

Staring her in the eyes, he agreed. "I don't care."

"The reason I didn't tell you is I didn't want to put you in a situation where you felt it necessary to show me allegiance," she said. "I didn't want you to violate Starfleet regulations."

"You and I both know they don't need to keep tabs on you. And if you want to talk about violations, it violates your freedom which is article 10--"

"It is of no consequence if they find out about the Kolinahr," she said.

He frowned a little.

"You're concerned they'll find out that I failed?" she asked.

"It's none of their business," he replied.

Suddenly, T'Pol understood his worry. The Council was based on a fragile web of alliances and any information that would hurt that alliance could cost T'Pol her reputation. A Vulcan, if anything, was supposed to be logical, not emotional. Although she knew she had both reason and emotion, races that were unhappy with her performance as ambassador may use it to discredit her and she'd lose whatever tenuous respect she had.

The chances of Section 31 leaking the information were remote.

"It doesn't matter," she whispered. "The scenario in which Harris would use information is--"

"Imagine Earth wants the Federation to show support for the suicide mission they're sending Ambassador Simon on. How might they gain approval?"

She was silent.

"Section 31's responsibility is protect Earth's interests," he said.

"There is nothing that can be done."

"You can ask Minister T'Pau or Minister Soval to--"

"No," she said.

"T'Pol--"

"You told me recently it that I will make my reputation on the Council because of my skill. Perhaps I should rely on that."

He gave a small smile, what she suspected was admiration, and nodded. Breaking through the silence, he spoke softly to her.

"Listen, about barging in--"

"I don't mind you stopping by," she said.

"I came here hoping you'd want to grab something to eat with me …."

"You've changed your mind?"

He pointed to her bathrobe. "I never think you're underdressed, but in this case …."

She prodded an eyebrow in his direction.

"Do you want to come?" he asked.

She agreed. "I was hoping we could discuss Prime Minister Pelletier's decision."

"I'll wait here."

Getting up with the same elegance, she glided into her bedroom, shut the door and put on a long sandy-colored Vulcan robe. As she fastened the pin on the material, she looked in the mirror.

_He thought I was entertaining someone?_

Shaking her head, she walked with him out the door and to a Chinese restaurant they both enjoyed as he vented about the "stupid decisions politicians make." On the matter of sending Neville, she agreed whole-heartedly and possibly above the typical decibel she was used to communicating in.

When they got to the Mandarin Cove, he opened the door for her, making the bell tinkle to alert the restaurant's wait staff. Holographic cherry blossoms filled the restaurant and a special spray strung it into the air so that the customers would have a feel for being in China; T'Pol found the custom strange and occasionally the smell irritated her nasal membranes. A water feature flowed down the middle of the restaurant, dividing it in two except for the bridge that connected the two halves. The two, as usual, headed across the bridge to their favorite table away from the masses, as the waiter pointed him there with a nod. Quickly they sat down and ordered their favorites: mixed vegetables with tofu and orange beef with broccoli.

Picking up the chopsticks, they both broke them apart and rubbed at the them vigorously. As Archer was about to take a drink of water that was brought to the table, T'Pol decided to give him some new information about her day, something that vexed her – though she'd never admit to the emotion.

"Something … interesting … happened today," she started.

"Oh?" he asked. "I take it you found out about--"

"Yes. Do you know who speaks for Earth in Ambassador Simon's absence?"

He shrugged.

"Neville's aide."

The admiral almost dropped his glass. "The red-haired kid?"

"Yes."

"You're shitting me?"

"I assure you, I'm not."

Immediately, he set his glass down, rubbed his temples and looked down at the table with an enormous frown. "What the hell is the Prime Minister thinking?"

"I don't know."

Archer was silent, so she continued. "I wanted to contact Admiral Gardner to recommend, on behalf of Vulcan, a replacement."

He nodded.

"I take it Matt spoke with you this morning about the ambassador's orders?" she asked.

"Yes. They almost sent Neville on the Potomac."

She gave the slightest of frowns.

"I … I didn't want the Potomac to take them, and Matt knew it … and called me on it. I got a kinda slap on the wrist for arguing against Earth's stance."

"Earth is acting foolishly. You had every right to bring it up."

He smiled. "And you were giving _me _a hard time about loyalty."

"My aide Staron wants to go on this mission."

Archer raised his brows. "What do you think?"

"I'm not certain I trust him."

"Why not?"

Fortunately for her, the food was brought to the table diverting the admiral's attention. The waiter set down a Tsing Tao, which Archer didn't order, but normally did, and brought her some tea. Smoothing her hand around the small white cup, she watched the admiral accept the beer with his lips sloped up even though she had heard him tell the waiter he didn't want that beverage tonight.

He poked his chopsticks in the air at her. "Staron may get himself killed."

"He isn't the only aide or ambassador interested in going with Neville."

"Bagdol?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Xemax?" he asked, ducking his head down to stare at his food.

"No. She's staying here."

He nodded.

Bagdol was a young man who would do anything, but Xemax was a seasoned ambassador. She asked, "Ambassador Xemax?"

Although everything else they'd been discussing was sensitive, and they were well out of anyone's earshot, he looked around and then shook his head.

"Just curious," he said.

She leaned in as he waved her concern away.

"Just curious about her." Just as she was about to question him again, he asked a question. "The Excelsior is taking Simon."

"With Captain Mallory at the helm?" she asked. It was one of the fanciest ships in the fleet, but with a captain who had a lot of potential, but not a lot of experience.

"Duvall is going with them."

"_Admiral _Duvall?"

"That's the one."

The travesty was beginning to know no bounds. "Jonathan, the situation is more dire than I had presupposed."

He nodded in agreement.

"What are you going to do?" she asked.

"I don't think we can do anything. Gardner seems set on this course."

"Then it's more imperative than ever than I talk with him."

He nodded.

Something came to her mind that surprised her. "Perhaps Ambassador Shran will join my concern?"

His eyebrows shot up. "Is he an ally?"

She dismissed his glee with the vaguest frown. "Perhaps on this issue."

"You calling Matt tonight?" he asked.

"I think I should, as soon as I get home."

Scooping her meal with her chopsticks, she noted that he fumbled only with his, losing a broccoli spear to his lap. Instead of commenting, she felt her stomach warmed like having drunk several cups of tea and her mind relaxed as if meditating for several hours at a time. Catching his eye, he produced a lopsided smile and then glanced down at his lap.

"Oh, well," he said.

"You were never very skilled with these." She showed off just for a moment, opening and closing hers as if she were using a PADD. It earned her a purring chuckle from him.

"Hard to believe I've lived here for more than," he paused, "twenty years."

Swallowing the remainder of his Tsing Tao another was set in front of him before he could order or decline.

Looking squarely at her plate, she made a comment. "I … enjoy coming here, however they seem almost overly attentive."

Looking at his beer, he picked it up. "I guess it's not all bad."

After a brief moment of silence between them, "Your meeting with Harris went well?"

Setting down his chopsticks, he let out a low sigh. That was all the information she needed. Actually, she'd already hypothesized that was the case. It's why when he entered her place frazzled and why even now he was a little fidgety.

"Anything you wish to discuss?" she asked.

He took a long swallow from his beer. "Let's hear about your day."

She hesitated and then eventually started speaking guessing her friend just wanted a break. Leaning back against his chair, he took another swig at his beer. Relaying all the various points, she indicated how the Council was prepared to place sanctions against Earth, both trade and economic. Before she finished her sentence, her friend had – with alarming accuracy – given a debrief of how he imagined everyone voted … including that Shran would've been a hold out.

Rubbing her fingers along the white porcelain cup, she asked a question. "Jonathan, there is an open position now at the Council, perhaps--?"

"No."

"Earth could use someone with your skill."

"I've been with Starfleet all my life, and so has Dad." He shook his head. "You and I both know that's not my strength anyway."

"Who would've supposed it would be Shran's?"

He gave a hearty laugh at the comment and polished off his second beer. Looking over the table, the two continued to sit at the table and eventually Archer picked at the leftovers of T'Pol's dinner on her plate – which she was used to - with his chopsticks and eventually rewarded himself with small corncobs, bamboo shoots, water chestnuts and bits of tofu.

Gazing at him sort through the vegetables he liked she tried to avert his eyes.

"What?"

"Nothing," she said, scooting her plate closer to him.

"Sorry. Guess I should've asked."

Rather than say anything, she watched him continue pick at her plate with satisfaction.

The two finished, or rather Archer finished her plate for her and then paid the bill. As they made their way out. When the two got up, they made their way across a bridge and headed outside into the cool, night air. Grabbing her outer cloak around her, she struggled to bring it to her neck until Archer stopped suddenly and brought it around for her. Giving a half smile at the accomplishment, he walked on with her at his side.

"I love San Francisco in fall," Archer said. His eyes beamed up at a street light along the sidewalk. "Something wonderful about the brisk air, the turning leaves and the fog."

As if remembering a dream long-since vanished, she watched a puff of smoke spill out from a manhole cover. Her fingers settled against her arms and she moved them up and down quickly, intent on bringing her body temperature up.

When she did this for the second time, she suddenly felt a jacket slipped over her shoulders, draping her in warmth. Looking at her friend, who was clad in a turtleneck, she shook her head.

"I don't--" she began.

He shrugged her off. "I've lived here nearly all my life, T'Pol. This is a warm night. Besides, I don't think night in the Forge was this crisp."

That was true.

Huddled at his side, relaxing into the jacket that she deemed looked ridiculous covering her Vulcan robes, she continued to walk onward. Stepping through the nearly empty streets, they finally arrived at her apartment. As he was about to leave her for the night, she found herself offering to have him upstairs and although she could tell he was tired, he seemed to agree, especially when she suggested she was going to call Admiral Gardner.

The two made it into her apartment and on entry, she slipped out of his jacket, folding it carefully over a chair and then beckoned him into her bedroom where the monitor was. Archer followed tentatively behind her and at her encouragement eventually sat on her bed – and just out of view - so that he could hear the conversation without being seen.

T'Pol's nimble fingers called up Matt's number and before long the admiral was in front of her. Struggling against the urge to stand, and show he was her superior, she crossed her legs.

"I hope I'm not calling at inopportune time," she said.

The man who answered had his hair askew and looked as if he'd been roused from sleep. Checking her clock, she determined it was already past 2300 …, which meant it was beyond the acceptable time to call.

He took a deep breath. "I half-expected you to call."

"Admiral Gardner, I presume you know the Council has found out about Earth's mission."

Matt didn't speak. Instead he rubbed his hair and coughed at the monitor.

"The Council is upset," she said.

"I think we can--"

"We've recommended sanctions."

"Sanctions!"

"I'm telling you this as one of the humans' strongest and longest allies."

"What are the sanctions?"

"You will receive a list of them tomorrow. I can say that Vulcan will recommend to abate some if you reconsider sending Earth's ambassador."

He huffed. "I can't. I don't have that authority. This came directly from the Prime Minister."

"I know you have influence with him."

He shook his head. "Not much, and I've already used what I could."

"Simon's aide will take his place at the Council. That cannot be permitted to happen."

It seemed like the information was news because Gardner's jaw dropped and he rolled his eyes.

"Stan?" he asked.

"Yes."

"On behalf of my planet, I would like to propose someone else is assigned … someone who has diplomatic experience. Someone who has negotiated with the races at the table."

She could see out of the corner of her eye that Archer was about to object. Ignoring him, she pressed on. "Sir, there are only a few humans who've done so."

Gardner frowned. "You want us to bring the ex-prime minister out of retirement."

"That is one solution. There are two other men I know of who've negotiated with nearly every race at the Council."

"Duvall is taking Simon to Romulus."

"That leaves only one."

"Archer?"

The admiral beside her shook his head. Disregarding him, she gave a slow nod.

"Yes."

Gardner sighed. "I think the Prime Minister would rather Nathaniel come out of retirement."

"That is entirely his prerogative, but--"

Matt mumbled low into the monitor. "I'll have an answer to you tomorrow, T'Pol. Good night."

Without her assistance, the screen between them faded to black. She sat staring at a few seconds before she heard the voice immediately to her right. Archer's.

"I told you I have absolutely no desire to be an ambassador."

Lingering her gaze at the screen, she gave the most minute of head nods and then turned her attention to him.

"You are the best one for the position."

Raising his eyebrows, as if she was crazy to mention the very idea, he emphatically denied it.

"No."

Moving to sit next to him on the bed, she questioned his logic. "Why?"

"We discussed this."

She hadn't been satisfied then and she wasn't now. In the back of her mind, despite his protestations, she knew he was intrigued and she also recognized he would be perfect in that role.

He said, "There's one man who has negotiated with every race at the table besides me … someone I think you respect and admire."

She waited.

"Mathew Gardner."

She hadn't considered the idea, and although it wasn't her personal favorite, the idea had merit. At least, Matt could serve the void Simon was leaving behind – not that Neville provided that much guidance or offered his opinion on behalf of Earth often.

"I'd like to think on it," she said. "Are you certain that you--?"

"No," he said, interrupting her.

After a few seconds passed, he asked a question. "Have you made up your mind about Staron?"

T'Pol blinked slowly and then whispered the answer. "Soval is correct. My assistant can provide details to me and … ultimately the decision is his."

He leaned in a little. "I know it's a tough on you."

Staring him in the eyes, she spoke. "It seems these days you and I make decisions we dislike, including putting people in harm's way."

"Hasn't it always been like that?" he asked.

Thinking back to her time on Enterprise, most of the decision – though life and death – seemed easier somehow. Few things, at the time, seemed like they had serious ramifications, even her trellium use.

"Perhaps," she whispered.

He pushed himself gently off the bed. "I should probably get going."

Escorting him to the door, the two made small talk until Archer headed to the elevator. After closing the door, she padded lightly to the living room and stared at the skyline. A thick fog had rolled in, and it hung on the city eclipsing nearly every building from site. She couldn't see Archer's, a site that was typically in plain view, even if she squinted into the cloudy air. Glancing to her left, she saw his jacket draped over the chair – forgotten.

For a moment she thought about trying to catch him and hand it back. Instead, she reasoned she could give it to him tomorrow when she would undoubtedly see him again.


	14. Chapter 14

Arch, you wrote: Take a close look at chapy 9 and even if it was hush hush in chappy 11 it dosent seem to be all that secretive hell even tpol is assitant knows of them.

Considering I wrote it, I remember. ;-) Of course T'Pol's aide knows, he sits with her in the Council room.

Then you say, "so tell me why does chapter 12 have archer telling harris about the romulans when we know reed works for the guys and by default all he knows harris knows and archer has to know this so as the wwe wresttler says

reed reports to harris harris has the same information reed and archer know hell perhaps even more harris wasnt even in a position to lie to archer"

Gardner only discusses this with the admirals and Archer shares the information with Reed. (By the way, Reed works for both Starfleet outright and Section 31). Hopefully you don't think Reed would just tell everyone information that Archer indicated was secret. Especially after T'Pol didn't easily divulge the information.

No one else knows, at least that was the idea. But, Archer, in this case, should've realized Section 31 kinda knows everything … even the things you don't think they would.

There's also this thing called: "the willing suspension of disbelief." I can't help you more than that.

----------

The moment Archer got through his door, he heard his console whir as if someone was demanding to speak with him. Running to the terminal, he switched it on and stared at the man on the other end with amazement.

"Prime Minister," he said, trying to decide whether to bow or just look respectful.

Pelletier, a man in his early sixties, had wavy gray hair and blue eyes. His smile was broad, white and a little crooked; his face looked like it belonged on an Irishman – large cheeks with the hint of impishness. The man tugged at his sweatshirt and stared at the computer, smoothing back his wild hair.

"I spoke with Gardner," the Prime Minister said.

Archer licked his lips. "I hope he didn't wake you."

The man provided a lopsided grin and adjusted his glasses. "He did, actually."

Archer continued to stand at attention.

Pelletier said, "I didn't know that Stan was Neville's replacement on the Council." The scholarly man glanced down at his shoes and gave a small laugh. "I recommended Neville pick someone, but … _an intern_?"

Archer had to agree, although he did so silently.

"Jon, I know we haven't seen eye to eye on everything. Although, I suspect we agree more than you and Samuels … or Samuels and I for that matter."

Jon grinned. "I can understand your difficulty, sir. And, well … I'm stubborn."

"Yes you are, Admiral. But, … I remember your speech the day the Federation was formed. I was moved by your words. I thought only a man of true conviction and experience could say what you did. I was struck, even then, that out of everyone at the lectern, you had the most experience with the coalition … the Federation … that had been assembled."

"Sir--" Archer began.

"I realized then you were a visionary. You and Enterprise created a tenuous peace with these people …."

"No--"

"And, you personally helped created the rules of the Council."

Suddenly Archer felt as if he was about to be assigned to a task he loathed. Just as he was about to disavow any knowledge of T'Pol's request, he heard the leader of Earth make a proposition.

"I know you and Matt think going to Romulus is a mistake, and don't try and deny it."

Archer wasn't about to.

"I … we've had a century of peace, Jon. I'd like to give that every opportunity before I commit our forces … before I commit your lives."

Now _that _Archer understood, at least in theory.

Pelletier said, "I'd like you to serve as temporary ambassador to Earth."

Archer was about to object, when the prime minister continued.

"According to article 52 of the Starfleet code, I can call you up for civil duty to your planet."

The code wasn't quite translated that way; it was intended if war had broken out and the leaders of Earth had been killed or wounded incapacitating them from service.

Pelletier said, "I've already spoken with Matt. It's been cleared."

Archer wanted to sigh.

"I'd like for you to begin tomorrow at 0700. I've asked Stan to meet you at Neville's office – your temporary office – at that time. I'd like you to debrief me on a daily basis at the end of the day; Neville used to do so at 1900 hours."

The admiral stammered for words.

"I know you think Neville is a damned fool, and … I have to be honest, he wasn't my first choice, but he passed the nomination of both the liberal and the conservative parties …. probably his affiliation to Nathan Samuels."

Archer was still speechless.

Pelletier said, "He has more muster than you give him credit, though. Knowing you talked with Harris, I think you can summarize what I mean there."

Wide-eyed, the admiral continued to remain silent. Nothing apparently escaped the Prime Minister's notice.

"The moment Neville returns, and he will, I'd like you to resign."

Archer blinked.

"Have any questions?" the Prime Minister asked.

The first question out of his mouth wasn't the one he wanted to ask at all. "What will people call me?"

"Ambassador Archer."

"What's my first order of business?" he asked.

"Try and convince the Council not to file sanctions."

The first question he'd wanted to ask now came to his lips. "Why not Gardner?"

The Prime Minister took off his glasses and rubbed them with a cloth. "If … _if_ … war is the outcome, I'd like Gardner to remain in charge. Although I have a lot of faith in Admiral McManus, it doesn't help to change jockeys before a big horse race."

"I have a strong alliance with Shran and T'Pol," Archer volunteered.

The Prime Minister smiled. "Not just them … and that's precisely what I'm counting on."

Placing the glasses back on his face, the Prime Minister waited. "Jon?"

The admiral clarified. "If I say 'no' …?"

"You can't really. Besides, you like the idea, even if you don't want to admit it."

Archer furrowed his brow.

"I'll talk with you tomorrow at 1900 hours," Pelletier said.

As he was about to close the channel, the Prime Minister said one more thing. "Wear a suit tomorrow, will ya?"

The connection closed and Archer found himself staring at it. Looking at the clock, 2320, he shook his head. Before changing and preparing for sleep, he contacted the Potomac, asking them to keep a close eye and ear on events in their sector for the next few days.

He then made a call to Reed – at Hoshi's, which amused him a little – asking him to continue investigating various ambassadors, including questioning Council members, without him.

Captain Reed sleepily rubbed his eyes. "Without you?" the Brit asked.

"I've been called up for civil service," Archer said.

When Malcolm stared on with confusion, the captain explained almost everything and then hastened to add that he didn't want Harris to know. The words hit the captain a little harder than expected and he explained with a shaking head.

"I would never betray your confidence, sir," Reed said.

"I know you never would."

-----

T'Pol began her day combing her hair and scenting it, as she would any other day. After sipping her Plomek broth and dressing in the most Vulcan of robes, she reminded herself to take Archer's jacket into work, but had somehow forgotten it by the time she left her apartment.

Walking into a dark office, Staron had left at 0700 with Simon and Bagdol, she stopped by her aide's desk and pondered whether he was alright. It was only 0720, which meant they were probably passing Jupiter now and far away from harm.

_At least for now._

Suppressing a sigh, she sat down at her computer and logged to T'Pau that she'd approved Staron's request to go to Romulus and sent a personal message to Soval thanking him. After she'd approved the information to be transported over satellites, she made her way to the chamber of the United Federation of Planets and waited as the other delegated arrived. Hardly any of the aides showed up, in fact, nearly every ambassador alone represented their planet. That was definitely odd. Then, she reasoned, maybe like her planet others found it useful to send a representative on this fool's errand at least for information about what was happening … without the slant they may receive from the humans.

Ambassador Bagdol was the only representative, besides Simon, who was not seated. Instead, his aide – a young woman with long black dreadlocks – sat in his chair. Quietly, she introduced herself to those around (for some reason no one spoke to each other's aides) as Natar.

As T'Pol's eyes scanned the room one more thing stood out. To her surprise, and quiet thanks, Stan had not arrived to take his place. Shran must've noticed the same thing.

"Where's the kid?" Shran asked.

Instead of an answer, one of Gral's aides wandered into the room and asked that Archer be allowed into the chamber.

The little pig grunted. "We did not ask for a military report today."

The aide responded. "He has none to give."

Gral pointed to the door and bellowed to let him in. Archer, wearing a black high-collared suit walked into the room and gave a half-smile to the people at the table. Immediately, T'Pol felt herself lean in.

"I've been asked by Prime Minister Pelletier to substitute for Ambassador Simon. I … I'm pleased to serve with you and hope that you find me a fair replacement."

Shran stood and yelled over the excited commotion of the room. "Andoria would like to commend Earth on its choice."

T'Pol, who'd stood only seconds after Shran, had nodded stoically in agreement. "Vulcan also approves of the replacement."

Gral laughed over the noise and then ushered everyone to his seat. "Archer, you continue to surprise me."

Jon headed to his seat with an angry aide, Stan, at his side. "I'm surprised myself."

Gral, musing on the announcement, spoke carefully. "You'll forgive me, but … the Prime Minister made a much better decision today than he did yesterday."

Archer bent his head, humbled. "The Prime Minister has learned of the sanctions you've taken against us. I'm hoping that we can discuss them."

T'Pol looked at her long-time friend and couldn't help but feel her eyes twinkle.

"Ambassador Archer, Vulcan is displeased that Earth made several decisions without consulting this Council."

Archer nodded thoughtfully. "Earth has had only a century of peace. Only _one_. The Vulcans have had a millennium before their disagreement with the Andorians. The Xindi, before attacking Earth, enjoyed 300. The Denobulans almost 800. Ambassador T'Pol, because we are newcomers to peace, we treasure it and go out of our way to safeguard it … even when it may appear foolhardy."

The Vulcan raised a single eyebrow.

"When the Xindi attacked our planet, we still managed a tenuous peace with them, and if we hadn't strived for it this Council wouldn't have been formed."

Sera, the Xindi representative, shook her head. "But, you did not consult us before deciding on a plan. _That _is the customary procedure. You helped create the bylaws. No one should know that better than you."

Gral agreed. "Ambassador Archer, the Council has a mandate to discuss all military options or negotiation avenues here. _First_."

Archer nodded. "We did ask for people to attend. And, I understand that everyone here sent someone on their planet's behalf."

Ambassadors glanced up and down the oblong table and when they finished murmuring filled the hall. The room was emptier than usual; Archer's words rang true.

Gral shook his head after looking briefly at the vacant chair near him. "Asking us to attend afterward doesn't assuage your responsibility for not following procedure in the first place."

"I'm not arguing that we didn't follow the process of this Council. I'm saying that we shouldn't have sanctions held against us for an oversight … one we tried to correct."

Shran volunteered. "Not everyone agreed with the sanctions, Pink Skin."

A few timid heads nodded, so Archer used his sway to open up discussion. "President Gral, I'd like to ask that the Council take a vote again on sanctions against us."

T'Pol watched as nearly everyone shook their heads and agreed to stay their demand for sanctions. When the vote was over, only two had continued their disagreement and had done so not because they felt compelled to, but because their government was unhappy. Jonathan hung his head, sighing, and then looked back at the Council.

"Thank you," he said.

Silently, the Vulcan thought that her previous commander, the one that hated politics, had become quite politic.

Gral grunted. "Archer brought up a good point. All of us have sent our aides in our stead on the Excelsior presumably for updates on the peace negotiation."

Shran nodded, his antennae squirming. "I still think it's an idiot's errand, but … Andoria couldn't risk not sending someone in case something actually came of this."

Sera chimed in. "The Xindi had similar feelings."

T'Pol spoke up. "As did the Vulcans."

Archer quieted their unease. "We'd be suspicious if you didn't. I think we're all concerned about the mission's success."

Gral gave a mild snort and then led the ambassadors through various motions and orders that were now customary – new aliens asking to join the Council and mostly being denied because the set of principles that had to exist on the home world. After hours and hours of work, including working through lunch, the little pig broke early. Everyone was antsy, wanting to talk with their aide, and they had a banquet to attend to that night.

"We have an event to go to tonight. Perhaps we should break early," Grail said.

All eyes went to Shran.

He gave a confident grin. "My wife will be pleased to hear it."

Gral nodded. "My wife as well. Meeting adjourned."

As soon as they all stood, T'Pol's gaze met Archer's. She huddled to him at once and nervously – with excitement – began peppering him with questions.

"Under what circumstances were you appointed as ambassador?" she asked.

Archer's lips flattened. "There's a know-it-all science officer I had aboard my ship once--"

Although she sensed he was being somewhat truthful, that he found the business of being ambassador less than fulfilling, she also knew he was teasing her.

"This know-it-all science officer was correct. You helped Earth evade sanctions, something Ambassador Simon would never be able to do."

He frowned. "I sensed everyone scrambling for their notes today."

"People are used to relying on their aides too frequently."

"Stan's a little pissed off."

"_Your_ aide should be thankful someone with experience is representing your planet."

Archer chuckled, his eyes glimmering. "I don't think he sees it that way."

Something in T'Pol's stomach tickled and she felt her eyes glow with the same warmth. It was how she felt when friends with her, people whom she could relax and be herself – not Vulcan and not emotional, but somewhere comfortably between.

"You left your jacket last night," she whispered.

He gave her a lopsided smile. "I thought I noticed it was colder going home than I expected."

Leading her out the door, he started to walk to his temporary office. As they rounded one corridor after another making small talk, he eventually stopped in front of Simon's place.

"Feels strange not to have my office or Diane waiting to greet me," he confided.

"It felt odd this morning that Staron wasn't waiting for me."

"Have you heard from him?"

"Not yet. I was hoping to contact him before the event tonight."

"Speaking of …" He nodded. "What time you heading over there?"

"2100." It was an hour past the hour of the occasion, something she knew living amidst humans that was being socially on-time.

"Good thinking. I hate these stuffy formal dinners."

"We live so close to each other. Perhaps we could share a taxi?" she asked.

"Sure. I'll see you at your place at 2075?"

"Very well."

Turning his back, he walked into his office and she stared at the door as it closed and headed back to her office to make to calls – one to Staron and then one to T'Pau.

--------

T'Pol brushed her hair and rubbed lipstick onto her mouth, puckering it as she did. The Vulcan was never vain enough to call herself attractive, but she believed tonight her appearance was acceptable. She decided against wearing Vulcan robes and decided to put something on that looked like it could be from Vulcan – a red slim-fitting Chinese dress with a mandarin collar. For the event, she event wore a barrette, one she'd seen in a history book of the United States from the 1940s. She'd always imagined quite illogically that despite the barbaric war, it was a somewhat idealistic time in history.

Adjusting a piece of hair, brushing it away from her face, she gathered the silk in her hand, slipped into her red shoes and met Archer at the door. Dressed in a tuxedo, he gave a broad smile. This was the first time she'd seen him in a fancy civilian tuxedo.

"You look nice," he said.

"I believe your saying is – you take showers."

A guffaw burst out of his mouth. "I think you mean, 'you clean up well.'"

"Hmmm. Perhaps."

She furrowed her brow and he held out his arm. Rather than take it, she questioned him, wondering what exactly he wanted her to do before he nonchalantly placed it back at his side.

"I contacted Staron," she said.

"And?" Archer asked.

"Thus far the mission seems successful. They've contacted Romulus and have been welcomed to their home world. They should be arriving in less than a week."

He sighed. "I guess we'll be waiting for the other shoe to drop until then."

She agreed, but did so silently.

They made their way into a shuttle taxi and headed over to the banquet – being held at the banquet area of the Star Room (a fancy rooftop room that had been a popular hang out since the 1900s). It was a large red room with windows that spanned the entire area that looked out over the city. The carpet was red and plush and mirrors lined the walls as if to make the place look larger. A few buffet tables were scattered along the room filled with food and drinks.

As soon as Archer and T'Pol stepped from the elevator, they spied Shran glad-handing everyone who came through the door. When he saw them, his face beamed and his antennae squiggled with glee.

"I see you came _together_," he said. His lips curled up churlishly.

At first Archer nodded and then at the eager smile the Andorian gave, he corrected the statement. "We didn't really come _together._"

The blue man didn't change his expression. "It's all right." Leaning in, Shran said a few things into his ear as Jonathan's face gave way to a frown.

"You have the wrong idea," Archer said, shaking his head.

T'Pol was about to inquire further, when she noticed a light blue hand wrap around her arm. It was Jhamel, seeming a little out of place with her blind blue eyes staring into space, and a shimmering grown wrapped around her protruding belly.

Jhamel said, "It's good to hear old friends."

The Vulcan noticed the woman had grown from the child she'd seen in Sickbay. Although she was still the same height, she seemed wiser and more mature as if motherhood and being married to the impetuous Andorian was good for her. The Aenar held the hand of a child who grinned mischievously.

Jhamel said, "Thank you for coming. I hear, you recommended my husband for the position."

T'Pol was about to negate that comment, when Archer spoke up.

"Couldn't think of a better candidate," he said.

"Pink Skin!" the girl beside her said. With a demanding tug on Archer's sleeve, the little girl looked up and her antennae poked up curiously.

"Hello," he said. "You've grown."

Nodding, she grinned. "Five centimeters!"

"You're a big girl."

She nodded. "I'm almost big enough to join the Imperial Guard."

Archer sighed. "Do you remember T'Pol?"

"I remember the _Vulcan_," she said.

Jhamel scolded, "The ambassador is a friend of your father's. You should show her respect."

"Father calls her that all the time!"

T'Pol intercepted, dismissing the reprimand with the wave of her hand. "I met you aboard Enterprise a little more than a year ago, Tallah."

The girl smiled, showing her white teeth in an over-exaggerated manner. "I know. I remember. Andorians have excellent memories!"

_She is definitely her father's daughter._

The two made their way to a table filled with various drinks as more people crammed into the Star Room. T'Pol retrieved something that looked like fruit punch, deciding it was a special occasion, while Archer grabbed a beer. They were both silent, looking at the already full room become more cramped.

"What did Shran whisper to you?" she finally asked.

Staring into his glass he shook his head. "Nothing."

"Nothing?"

He rolled his eyes. "You don't want to know."

Staring at him, as if she could bore a hole through his skin, she contradicted him and after a minute of being under her gaze he exhaled noisily.

"He said if I were a smart man that I would …."

She waited.

"He suggested the two of us should …."

A single eyebrow poked against her forehead. "Yes?"

As he was about to answer, Captain Reed and Lt. Sato walked over hand-in-hand, both grinning from ear-to-ear. Their eyes were shiny and there was a spring in their step, as if their gait had lightened.

Malcolm straightened his uniform on approach and Hoshi swept a dangling piece of hair away from her face despite her mane had been pinned up.

"Seems strange seeing you out of uniform, sir," Reed said to Archer.

He agreed. "It feels weird to be out of uniform."

Reed then turned to T'Pol. "You look quite nice."

"Thank you."

Hoshi leaned over to pick up a glass of wine sitting on the table behind them and then sipped on her beverage. Archer face began spreading into a large smile.

"What's this?" Archer asked, pointing at her hand.

Reed chortled and Hoshi blushed for a few seconds.

"He asked me last night," Hoshi said.

Reed nodded with a sheepish grin. "It's funny. I know we haven't been dating that long, but … sometimes you just know."

Hoshi agreed. "Besides, I think being on Enterprise … you got to know people better than you expected. Like their quirks and foibles."

As T'Pol watched the scene unfold, she wasn't entirely sure what they were discussing. Although she'd learned quite a lot about human customs and idioms, occasionally she was reminded that she was still an alien. After Archer dragged Hoshi into a hug and slapped Reed hard on the arm, T'Pol finally spoke up.

"What happened?"

Archer laughed. "Hoshi and Malcolm got engaged."

Just as the two were about to tell all the ins and outs of their engagement, the music kicked up a little. Leading his wife out onto the dance floor, Shran took Jhamel in his arms and swayed awkwardly to what T'Pol was presumed classical music, prompting others to join them and do the same. Within an instant Reed took his bride to be for a spin around the floor leaving Archer and T'Pol, and MACOs, which appeared to be stationed throughout the room, as if they were the only ones not partaking in the ritual.

Jonathan leaned over to her. "I don't know if you'd be interested or not--"

"In dancing?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Do Vulcans dance?"

"Bondmates – married Vulcans - do."

"I see."

They watched as people twirled by and she heard him quietly ask another question.

"So, does that mean you don't want to?"

They stared at each other and for a second and T'Pol felt the moment become thick as if he wanted to say more. Suddenly, he spoke to her and grabbed her arm.

"What the hell."

Leading her out to the black and white tiled floor and under a large crystal ceiling, he grabbed her around the waist and took her hand in his and began to lead her through the crowd. She found the steps difficult until he leaned down.

"Put your feet on mine," he said. "It's how my mom taught me."

Hesitatingly, with a raised eyebrow, she did. Once her feet sat on his, the movement felt more fluid and she enjoyed the sensation more despite the odd feeling of touching. She could also tell that he enjoyed it more. The smile on his face broadened and he chuckled occasionally remarking that the two of them must look ridiculous, and yet for some reason she thought he reveled in looking absurd. When the song came to an eventual end, T'Pol momentarily felt the gaiety of the moment vanish and when the two looked at each other, she noticed his face blushed slightly.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"Nothing," he said. And the two, before the next song began, made their way back to stand next to a table.

As Archer leaned in to comment about how happy Shran seemed, as the blue man waved his arms in the air, T'Pol's attention was taken elsewhere. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Phlox hurry to Captain Reed. Instead of wearing a tuxedo or even a Denobulan robe to signify the importance of the occasion, he rushed in wearing a long white lab quote and wild hair. Something was definitely amiss. Straining her hearing she could barely make out what they were saying.

Phlox said, "I have to speak to you at once. It's about the ambassador we interviewed today."

Reed nodded and then two huddled off without a word.

"Something's amiss," she whispered.

"What?" Archer asked.

She recalled the event she'd just witnessed when Hoshi approached them and they all walked off the dance floor.

"I wonder if they found their spy," he said, more to himself than anyone.

T'Pol was about to respond when the music came to an abrupt end and Shran walked to a table to clink a glass loudly and then finally shouted above the roar of the room.

"Can I have your attention!" Shran yelled. His antennae reared back.

When silence broke up, he broke into a smile. "Much better. I wanted to thank you for coming tonight and for honoring me. I am proud to serve Andorian during these exciting times and I'm pleased you all wanted me on the Council."

Gral heckled. "Not everyone, Shran!"

The crowd broke into laughter and the blue man at the front let his smile dip only for a moment.

"I'd like to thank that fat wise guy who just spoke up, President Gral, for everything he's done. I'd also like to thank Archer and … Ambassador T'Pol."

The Vulcan was startled that the Andorian would mention her.

"I've grown close to these people throughout my years. And on more than one occasion they have proved loyal friends even in the most difficult of circumstances," he said, wrapping his arm around his daughter.

"Thanks also to my wife Jhamel and my little one Tallah. I know Earth is much warmer than our planet, and I know you made a lot of sacrifices for me to come here."

Lost in the moment, his daughter wrapped her arms around his legs as if whispering into them how much she loved him. Even T'Pol was touched.

"Anyway, let's get back to the party," he said. "Takala gravada! Enjoy the moment!"

The music began to play again and people flocked to the dance floor or to get another beverage. T'Pol, Archer and Hoshi stayed in the same area and the Vulcan turned to her companions.

"Interesting speech," T'Pol noted. It wasn't one of the most eloquent, but it was heart-felt. At least she believed that would be the term the humans would use.

"I thought it was very sweet," Hoshi said. "It's funny to think of Shran married and with a family. Come to think of it, it's funny to think he's a key figure for his government."

Archer chuckled at that. "Yes, it is."

The three chatted more about Shran, remembering his actions on P'Jem and reminisced at the progress he'd made since that day. They each discussed a small amount of surprise that he and Jhamel wound up married, mostly because the woman seemed so young and naïve then. Then they concluded that in the end everything had turned out well for the Andorians – all of them. Jhamel was lovely and patient – a nice balance for her hotheaded husband. Tallah was cute, though she had her father's arrogance and stubbornness.

The conversation made a quick detour, at Archer's finagling, to Malcolm and Hoshi and their impending wedding. The three talked about where the wedding would be located, when it was being held and asking for more details about how he popped the question. Hoshi giggled at how he asked for her hand noting it couldn't be told in mixed company, which made Archer nearly choke on the beverage.

As they continued on about the wedding, the words faded into the background as T'Pol looked across the room and spied two small legs kicking under a table. Without excusing herself, she meandered over there and crouched down.

"Looking for something, Tallah?" T'Pol asked.

The Andorian poked her head out from under the table.

"I'm looking for more jewelry," she said.

"More? Did someone lose an earring?" T'Pol asked.

"Must've," Tallah said and then shimmied back under the table.

"Would your mother appreciate you underneath here soiling your gown?" T'Pol asked.

Keeping her body under the white tablecloth, she spoke defiantly. "I am the daughter of one of the Imperial Guard and now ambassador to Andoria!"

As if on cue her mother wandered over and leaned down, out of the little girl's view. "You are quite a handful, young lady."

Immediately Tallah rustled out from underneath the table wearing a small pout and two droopy antennae. "Sorry."

"May I see the jewelry you retrieved?" T'Pol asked.

The Andorian girl looked suspicious until she noted her mother's sour expression and then opened her hand with guilt. In her blue hand were three small silver discs.

"May I?" T'Pol asked, reaching to see one in more detail.

The discs were infinitesimal, but they seemed like no jewelry the Vulcan had ever witnessed before. Without asking permission or explaining her actions, she threw the disc onto the floor and stepped on it until it cracked underneath her heel.

Tallah and Jhamel's mouths hung open in shock at what the Vulcan had done. Crouching again, she picked up the pieces.

The discs when broken revealed intricate wiring, as if these devices were either listening devices. Looking around for MACO security, she found none in sight; the room was already filled to near capacity; it could be that the security guards were lost in a sea of people. Besides, one person at the event would know if these were communication devices: Hoshi.

T'Pol made her way quickly to Archer and Hoshi with Tallah and Jhamel in tow. Opening up her hand, she interrupted their conversation.

"Tallah found these under several of the tables."

Hoshi peered into her hand and then slowly retrieved the broken one. "This is a bug. The wiring here is used for picking up and receiving information. But, it's not Starfleet issue." Correcting herself, she glanced at Archer. "They're not even Section 31 issue."

The woman then turned and then looked at T'Pol. "Why would someone bug this event?"

T'Pol raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps it has something to do with why Dr. Phlox came from his lab looking for Malcolm?"

As if on cue the music ended and more MACOs filled the banquet room weaving quickly through the crowd as if looking for someone – guns at the ready. And as if to combat the onslaught of security, a figure pushed through the crowd and finally the lights flickered off. A panicked room began to murmur loudly until a few voices, most likely MACOs, tried to tell everyone to "calm down." T'Pol could feel Jhamel close in on her daughter, bringing the child closer to her body. And she could tell Archer was growing anxious at the action, or lack there of, taking place.

Suddenly Reed's voice could be heard above the crowd. "Please everyone remain calm. The lights should be restored in a few minutes."

And then a beam of light sliced through the air and several people began screaming.

Shran yelled, "Get down!"

A window shattered and a cold breeze began to blow through the room.

T'Pol hit the deck, along with Hoshi, Jhamel and Tallah. Archer stayed up as if he somehow was going to help until T'Pol tugged at his sleeve.

Beams started ripping through the air, reflecting in the mirrors to T'Pol's confusion, and a weakened British voice yelled for the security guards to "Get Amabassador Xemax."

"Malcolm," Hoshi whispered.

"I'll be back," Archer said, stalking away.

The Vulcan was about to tell Jonathan not to be foolhardy, when she lost track of his movements. She was about to go after him until she heard the scuffle get closer to their location.

"Under the table," T'Pol said to the Andorian family and Hoshi.

T'Pol ushered Shran's family to move safety and kept her eyes wide hoping to glean more information.

The next few minutes were nerve wracking. More scuffles broke out closer to their location and more phaser blasts sizzled around the room zapping nearby tables and felling a few MACOs in the process. Hoping to crawl to one to provide aid, she suddenly heard Archer's voice and then Shran's as a phase pistol sounded again and a body hit the ground hard.

"We got her!" Shran said.

Xemax, the Denobulan ambassador, spilled muffled curses into the floor.

Finally the lights flickered on and T'Pol crawled out. The scene was incredible. A few MACO bodies covered the ground, announced dead to the Vulcan's dismay. A tussled Archer and Shran, both wearing their own blood on their white shirts, picked up the ambassador from Denobula. Shran looked like he took a few fists to the mouth; his lip dripped a dark blue color. Archer's nose was just beginning to bleed.

Also, harrowing, she could vaguely see – while people were still on the ground – Captain Reed lying on the floor in a pool of crimson. He'd obviously been hit by a phaser beam, but to where she couldn't tell.

Scanning the room for Dr. Phlox, she made her way to him while calling behind her. "Hoshi!"

The Japanese woman gave a startled scream and sped her way to her fiancé. His eyes were beginning to flitter as if trying to stay conscious and Hoshi crouched to scoop his face into her hands.

"Malcolm, hold on," she said.

T'Pol asked sternly. "Is there a doctor here?"

The moment she did, Phlox made his way through the crowd, which was starting to crowd around Reed. The Denobulan got to him and announced harshly that they needed to get him to a medical facility right away.

Admiral Gardner appeared next to them and opened a communicator, ordering three people at his location to be transported to Starfleet Medical right away on his mark. Giving the communicator to Phlox, the doctor nodded and gave the order.

A beam of light whirled and T'Pol hung her head, hoping quietly that they'd made it in time. Xemax was led out of the ballroom in handcuffs with several MACOs at her side as she accused them of every diplomatic violation she could mutter. And Shran made his way over to his family, throwing his arms around them with relief.

Additional security guards rushed in to help escort the partygoers out, including many of he ambassadors and their families (like Shran's) and others grabbed their comrades to usher them to the morgue. The room had thinned out incredibly, leaving a few of Starfleet's top brass to discuss the situation in disgust and Archer wandered over to T'Pol, holding his nose in his hand.

"How's Malcolm?"

"I don't know. They took him to Starfleet Medical."

"I hope Malcolm's okay."

"I do as well." The only comforting thought was that Captain Reed was with Dr. Phlox. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah, although she hits pretty hard for a girl." The way in which he'd mentioned it made her think he was teasing her.

"Denobulans have more than twice the strength of humans. Even the females."

"Shran okay?"

"Yes, he and his family left."

"Good," he said. He dabbed at his nose, which was still flowing. "One downside of having a prominent nose," he said, tilting his head back.

She'd noticed it bled more rather than taper off. Walking over to a table, she picked up a few napkins and held them out to Archer who snagged a few.

"Thanks." Mopping his nose, he said a few things. "One thing bothers me. Shran and I couldn't find a device that rigged the lights to go off."

"You think she had conspirators?" she asked.

"Maybe she dropped it somewhere. If she didn't whoever was listening to us managed to override the power grid. A grid that was secured by Starfleet."

"That would be quite a feat," she said.

"Yes it would," he said, darkly.

"Your blood hasn't coagulated yet."

"I had a water polo injury at the state finals. Took about three hours to get it to completely stop."

"I have something at my apartment that may help," she offered.

Nodding, he made his way out the door, saying a few last words. "It'll be nice to be near a com unit. I want to find out how Malcolm is."

TBC


	15. Chapter 15

A/N: Archangemon, not insulted. Don't worry. I enjoy your feedback.

-----

On the way to the apartment, Archer described being able to locate the Denobulan ambassador in the dark by watching her phaser fire and on arriving there seeing Shran. The two managed to drag her to the ground and knock the phaser from her hand. But while being detained, she managed to give Shran a roundhouse punch and an uppercut to Archer.

Denobulans may have more twice the strength of humans, but Xemax – the Denobulan ambassador – had seemingly more than that. At least that was his complaint.

When Archer and T'Pol got back to her apartment, his shirt was already sporting more bloodstains than before – thanks to a drippy nose - and his eyes managed to be encompassed already by purple rings. Instructing him into the bathroom, he sat on the lid of her commode as she retrieved a small medical kit from underneath her sink.

"Tilt your head back," she said.

Touching the bridge of his nose she felt him jerk back. He said, "Sorry, it smarts a little."

"I wonder if Xemax broke it." Running a scan over it, she shook her head.

"Well that's good news," he said.

"I can reduce the swelling and stop the blood flow."

"That'd be nice." Looking down at his shirt with a small frown, he made a comment. "Looks like I already lost the deposit on the tux. I'm never going to be able to get the stains out."

As she retrieved a hypo and filled it, she asked a question. "You don't own your tuxedo?"

"I live on a Starfleet stipend, T'Pol."

She blinked, unamaused.

He said, "I don't wear one often. In fact, I think the last time I wore one was … my high school prom. God, that was more than 30 years ago."

"Prom?"

"It's kind of a banquet for high school students."

"I see." She tapped the hypo against his neck. "I might be able to remove the stains."

"That's okay."

"Why not?"

He shrugged. "It's okay. I'll just send it to the dry cleaners."

"Jonathan, I have a background in chemistry. If I'm able to assist you, why not? Give me your shirt."

With a sigh, he took off his jacket, cummerbund and unraveled his tie before unbuttoning his shirt. As he stripped, she collected each piece of clothing and neatly folded it and set it on the counter, stacking his shirt at the top of the pile.

Turning back to him, she said, "Looks like the blood has subsided." Removing the canister loaded in the hypo, she filled it with another and shot him in the neck again. "Now perhaps the swelling will go down."

Ducking in front of the mirror, he looked at his own reflection. "Oh."

"What's wrong?" she asked, joining his reflection.

Turning to the side and then facing the mirror, he shook his head. "Looks a little crooked."

T'Pol said, "Could be the swelling. Stay here, I'll return shortly."

She took his clothing and set it on her bed, except for the shirt, which she took to her sink. Although she wasn't equipped with various household cleaning products – most of which she believed contained too many chemicals – she did have a chemistry background. Running cold water on it to let it soak was the first logical step. When she returned to the bathroom, Jonathan was still gazing at his face.

"It should take a few hours to clean your shirt … and a few hours for the inflammation to go down."

"Thanks."

"Perhaps we should contact Phlox to see how Malcolm is?" she asked.

Nodding, the two went to her bedroom, in front of her communication station, and sat down. As she was about to cue up the terminal in front of her, Archer stopped her.

"Uhm," he said. "Maybe I should put something on before we contact them?"

"You have something on." She pointed to his pants.

"I should probably have more on."

"Are you cold?"

"No."

"Then what is the issue?"

"Just humor me."

She knitted her eyebrows. "I don't have a shirt large enough for you. Would you like a robe?"

"Don't think that'd be much better."

"Why?"

"It would look a little weird if I was sitting on your bed wearing your robe."

"Jonathan, I believe you were the one who gave me counsel about disregarding other people's opinions."

"This is different."

"How so?"

"This is _inviting _gossip."

"Do you think Phlox would … gossip?"

"No."

"Then what are you concerned about?"

"I doubt we'll reach Phlox right away. Someone from Starfleet Medical will answer and see us like this and …."

She waited.

He exhaled noisily. "_They'll _gossip, T'Pol."

"That doesn't concern me."

He finally he confessed. "I guess what Shran said bothers me."

"What _did _he say?"

"If I was a smart man I'd …."

"Yes?"

"We'd …."

"Yes?"

"You and I would …."

"Jonathan--?"

"All right. He said, 'If you were a smart man, Pink Skin, you wouldn't have shown up tonight; you'd still be … with her.'"

"That was it?" T'Pol got the impression Jonathan was editing out the cruder information.

He confirmed her suspicions. "That was the gist."

"Why does Shran's opinion concern you?" she asked.

He shrugged. "I don't know. I don't like the implication."

"Are you concerned it hurts your standing with him or the people at the Council?"

"No." Once he met her eyes again, he reaffirmed that was the case. "No, that's not it."

"Then what is it?"

"I don't know. I guess I'm worrying for nothing."

She put her hand on his shoulder for a second and he gave a lopsided smile. He said, "You're right. I know you're right. I … I'm not sure what got into me."

"It has been an eventful day."

"I'm sure that's it." He produced a toothier grin. "You know, he did say something else."

She waited taking her hand away from his arm. "Oh?"

"He said I looked happy with you at my side again."

"Working together again … it is rather reminiscent of days gone by," she said. "I find our working relationship pleasing."

He smirked. "Me, too."

T'Pol remembered something that she was all together unsure why she didn't recall it sooner. "Your jacket. It's hanging in my closet and may provide some modesty. Would that suffice?"

"Better than wearing a tux jacket."

"Why?"

He waved his hands in front of him. "Never mind."

The two walked through her apartment until they got to her closet. She pulled out his coat for him and he slipped it on with her help.

Wiggling in, she could tell he was beginning to feel comfortable. "That's better." Contented, until the zipper didn't come up past his collarbone, leaving a wide patch of chest hair toward his neck visible.

He said, "Oh, well."

Trudging back to her room, they sat down again and T'Pol made the call. Indeed someone on Phlox's staff answered. A blond woman in her mid fifties with large brown eyes was on the other end. She narrowed her eyes, undoubtedly at Archer's strange attire or imagining something between the two anyway, and then continued with the call.

"May I help you?" the woman asked.

"Is Dr. Phlox available?" T'Pol asked.

"He's in surgery right now."

"For Captain Reed?"

"Yes."

"Is Hoshi Sato in the area? I would like to speak with her," T'Pol said.

"She is. Let me go get her, Ambassador."

As the connection was put on mute, T'Pol turned her head to Archer. "It appears you were correct."

Before he could reply, Hoshi eventually showed up.

"How's Malcolm?" Archer asked, leaning in.

"Phlox says he'll be fine. The phase pistol shot grazed his side, which caused a lot of bleeding."

T'Pol noticed she and the man beside her breathed easier after hearing Reed would recover. She had to admit, she too felt better. Jonathan hung his head against his chest for a moment.

"That's such a relief," Archer said.

"Do you need anything?" T'Pol asked.

Hoshi gave a tight smile and shook her head. "I'm fine thanks. I'll let you know when Phlox comes out."

Both T'Pol and Archer stared at the monitor as if testing the young woman and she waved them off. "Really, I'm okay."

"All right," Jonathan said.

"I'll talk with you later," the Japanese woman replied before the monitor went blank. As it turned to charcoal, T'Pol looked at Archer.

"We should go to the hospital," she said.

"I was thinking the same thing," he replied. "Maybe we can stop by my apartment first? I'll grab a shirt."

The Vulcan who'd been among humans a little too long produced a small sigh. "Of course," T'Pol said.

----

When Archer and T'Pol arrived at Starfleet Medical, the scene was fairly calm. Hoshi was sitting quietly in the Waiting Room while watching the news on the screen in front of her, a monitor hooked to the ceiling to amuse (or rather distract) guests.

"Hear any news?" Archer asked. Neither he nor T'Pol wanted to be a burden, but they were too interested in his health and her well-being to stay away.

"I just called T'Pol's place. Malcolm's doing fine."

Archer wrapped his arms around her for a quick hug. "That's great."

T'Pol added a hand on Hoshi's shoulder to signify her relief.

"You guys didn't have to drop by," she said. "He can't even have visitors yet …. I haven't even seen him."

"Didn't expect to drop in on him." Archer smiled. "Besides, you couldn't really keep us away."

Hoshi nodded making her way to a seat in the Waiting Room and all the while Archer tried to convince her to grab something to eat or drink. T'Pol noticed despite feeling fatigue and stress, the young woman refused indicating she wanted to be there in case Malcolm managed to open his eyes much sooner than expected. And somehow, the admiral didn't scoff at her request; he understood the devotion the two must have toward each other.

Although he didn't see romance between them on the Bridge, he knew the two were close. Hell, everyone on his ship was close and shared more in the ten years together than one might share in a marriage. Life and death situations arouse on a weekly basis, crewman – like Hoshi – had been tortured and egos – like Malcolm's – had been crushed. It wasn't hard to imagine two of his officers making the next step to a relationship.

As Archer settled into a seat next to Hoshi, he noted the couple, in an odd way, complemented each other. Reed was the very essence of prim and proper order, someone regulated to live life through a series of comfortable and exacting routines. Hoshi managed her way through life using charm and sarcasm (sometimes both at the same time) to haphazardly get through life. He was the model of protection and she was willing to play damsel in distress to stroke his ego. She was a genius when it came to language, but underplayed it; he enjoyed her fawning over his knowledge.

Hoshi let down a bit of her guard and seemed to allow the stress to overcome her in a way she hadn't been prepared for. Burying her face into her hands, she cried about what could've happened and how afraid she was … more afraid than when she'd joined Enterprise.

With a little wisdom, Jon provided her context. "You have a lot to lose."

She looked up at him with tear-ridden eyes.

"You care for him deeply, Hoshi," T'Pol said, as if she understood the explanation better than the human.

Something about the moment made Hoshi burry her face into his shoulder and T'Pol to lean into Archer as he wound his large arms around the quivering Japanese woman.

"Maybe you could get some water," he said to T'Pol.

The woman walked away with a single, and understanding, nod.

"I don't know why I'm acting like such a baby," Hoshi whimpered.

He gave a mild chuckle, only because her cry seemed on the verge of laughter itself. "It's okay."

"Jon, I've never felt about a man the way I do Malcolm."

"I know."

"He's pigheaded, but sweet and gentle. He listens to me … I mean _really _listens. Can you he asked if he could kiss me? And before he asked me to marry him, he contacted my family to get their blessing?"

He whispered, "I can imagine."

"When he asked me to marry him … he'd prepared a pillow with a ring on it. He's just so romantic. I never would've imagined."

"I thought you said the story about the two of you wasn't fit for mixed company."

"We were … well … we were in a comprising situation at the time."

Shifting with slight discomfort, Archer joked with her. "I don't need to know more."

She gave a small laugh as she wiped away her tears. She said, "It's funny. A year ago if you'd asked me whether I'd marry him, I would've called you insane for even bringing it up. So much has changed."

"Things usually do over time."

"Yeah. Do you know how we got together?"

"No."

"It was right after Trip's funeral. Travis had relatives in the area and was staying with them. It was just Malcolm and I, and we were at the same hotel. Both us of were too miserable to be good company, so we hung out in his room to be unhappy together."

Archer brought his arm around her to rest on the back of her chair while she continued. "After we told stories about Trip, laughing and crying – sometimes both at once – we just wound up in each others' arms. Something about it felt so good and so right …. We just comforted each other and it led to more.

"Before either of us understood what was happening, he asked me if he could kiss me and then seconds or hours passed and it was morning."

Archer swallowed and spoke quietly. "I'm glad you were there for each other."

"We both thought maybe it was a mistake at first, but … we couldn't keep away from each other. He'd visit my class and I'd stop by his office for no reason. One night after dropping by my class, he asked to take me out on a date … and it eventually lead to a relationship."

He saw her eyes glistened at the memory of the tale. A smile spread over his lips; even middle aged, he found some sentimental stories endearing.

"Maybe that's a story to tell your kids." He gave a grin at his comment.

"Kids?" she asked.

Grinning broader, he agreed. "I'm sure you'll have them eventually."

As his old communications officer struggled for a come back, T'Pol returned with a glass of water and provided to Hoshi's grateful hand. Within seconds Phlox emerged, hair wild and glanced around the room until he spotted the three. Striding with purpose, he made his way to the three and delivered the news Hoshi'd been waiting for.

"Malcolm just woke up."

Hoshi shoved the water into Archer's hand and rushed to the doctor to throw her arms around the Denobulan.

"You may come in. But, I'd prefer it just be you. He's very weary and I'd like to give him some rest." He confided as she made her way down the hall with him. "He insisted on seeing you to make sure you were all right."

Phlox turned to T'Pol and Archer and clarified his statement. "You can visit him tomorrow."

The Vulcan and admiral nodded and Archer watched Hoshi grab Phlox's hand as they vanished into the shadows of the corridor.

T'Pol leaned in and asked a question. "Is she all right?"

"I think she's fine now," Archer said as a response.

A few moments of silence passed as he reflected on everything his ex-communications officer told him until T'Pol jostled his thoughts.

"You seem pensive," she said.

Glancing over at the Vulcan, he gave a small smile. She was still dressed in the elegant Chinese gown she'd donned for the party. While he wore a t-shirt and jeans, she looked as put together as when they'd stepped into the cab. The thing that struck Archer was her red barrette. The dragonfly pattern wasn't holding her bangs away from her face and held no logical value other than adorning her hair. Blush drew attention to her high, green cheekbones. Her lips were ruby red, as if she'd put special thought into having her mouth match her dress and make a sharp contrast to her green skin. And her lids were shaded with a lavender color that highlighted the amber flecks in her deep brown eyes.

"I _am _pensive."

"What about?"

His cheek twitched. "Hoshi told me how she and Malcolm started dating. It was a nice story."

"When did they begin?"

"They started at Trip's funeral, but apparently they didn't date until later."

Her expression changed and she closed her eyes briefly. "It's illogical, but … I _feel_ better knowing that."

It was nice to think something good happened because of Trip's death. Part of him felt better knowing that too, but possibly for other reasons as well.

"Perhaps we can stop by the Mandarin Cove tonight?" she asked. "Neither of us have had more than a few appetizers and it appears Hoshi's well-being and Malcolm's health are in good order."

_As good as can be,_ he thought.

It was already past 2200 hours. There were many restaurants open, but most of them served as a bar or discotheque this late at night. Mandarin Cove was one of the few that stayed open this late that didn't have karaoke or some other nonsense. Listening to his stomach rumble, he nodded in defeat.

The got up and made their way to the orderlies' station and Archer left a message for Hoshi before heading to their favorite dinner spot where she'd order the tofu dish and he'd ask for the beef. She'd profess she was finished and he'd pick at her plate, fumbling with his chopsticks under her admonishing eyebrow. The two eventually got to their respective apartments after midnight.

---

T'Pol showed up early at the Council Room the next day, at the request of President Gral. When she arrived, she noted Shran and Archer were already seated at the table next to the president dressed as if ready for work.

The little pig made a grunt and continued. "Nice to see you, Ambassador T'Pol. I received a call yesterday evening from Admiral Gardner. He confirmed something I'm sure you already know …."

She sat down and waited for the information.

"Xemax wasn't a Denobulan. She's an Arali."

T'Pol's breath stuttered. It was the same creatures that were responsible for Trip's death … the same ones Excelsior was in the process of meeting to negotiate with, along with the Orions and Romulans, on Romulus.

"Why are you telling us?" Archer asked.

Gral stroked his beard. "You were the only ones I trust in the Council. We've uncovered two spies. How many more?"

Shran's antennae wiggled. "That's not procedure."

Gral snarled. "Damn procedure!"

"Did Captain Reed finish his investigation?" T'Pol asked Archer.

Archer shrugged. "I don't know. I've been a civilian now for two days."

"Well, this doesn't bode well," Shran said. He looked slowly from each council member. "I hadn't heard from my aide this morning."

It was the one he'd sent on the Excelsior.

T'Pol leaned back in her chair, a sense of fear crawling down her spine. "I have not heard from Staron either."

"Neville's been quiet," Archer said. "That's unlike him."

Gral looked at his comrades and said a few ominous words. "I wonder if war is around the next bend."

Shran and T'Pol remained quiet as Archer looked down at his hands. "I hope to God it's not."

The four of them were quiet until the other Council members filled the room and began chatting about how they hadn't heard from their comrades and aides. The piglike man in the front point to each seat and whispered words that T'Pol never thought he would.

"Perhaps we should consider what a declaration of war might look like."

TBC

---

A/N: I'm trying to become a better writer and am wondering whether people want me to continue (whether it's interesting). Please feel free to leave me a comment.


	16. Chapter 16

A/N: Thanks guys!

Night's Darkness: Lots of Shran is definitely in the plan. Oooo, a rhyme. He was one of my favorite characters and I can't imagine a continuation after TATV without him. He's a lot of fun to write, as well. I think I can swing his child's birth as part of the story!

Is it an Archer/T'Pol story? No, it's a story about how the Romulan War began and what the Enterprise heroes do before and during it. It's about the Federation and the alliances, including how they are involved with the war. Now, will in the process of all this Archer and T'Pol find romance? You'll just have to find out. (I think that's part of the mystery.) I will continue to write about Hoshi/Malcolm and Shran/Jhamel.

---

Words of war hung around the low-lit room and reverberated off the walls marble walls.

_War_, T'Pol thought

When the Council was created, one of the primary missions was to keep peace. The idea wasn't just for the Andorians and the Vulcans, for example, to put away their phase pistols and agree to be friends. The mission was much more expansive: to keep the peace in the entire universe. It seemed unreachable, and yet thus far the United Federation of Planets had managed to avert skirmishes between more than just the few species represented at the Council table. Last year through diplomacy, the Federation was able to end three battles, feed the inhabitants of hungry planets and end a plague on Elexi Prime.

To hear Gral speak of war made the Vulcan's blood run cold.

"We should never mention that word unless we're prepared to back up our words with actions," T'Pol whispered. "It could be that our aides and Neville have been unable to contact us."

The Andorian frowned. "Do you really think that's the case, Vulcan?"

T'Pol said, "You are making an assumption."

Shran disagreed. "You are, too."

As the Council members came in, Sera – the ambassador from Xindi - sat next to T'Pol and broke in on the conversation. "I heard you mention a declaration of war. How could you do such a thing?"

Gral gave a grunt. "What of it?"

Sera said, "You should bring it to the entire Council."

Gral said, "We found two traitors. It seems the Council has been compromised."

Others added their opinions: Darag accused Merah, the Veral ambassador, of being a spy.

"I saw her here late last night!"

Merah hissed. "I was trying to contact my aide."

"I didn't see Ambassador Trin at the party last night," Demvar said.

"My child was ill. I stayed up with him all night," Trin explained.

Nezfar piped up. "Demvar, you're one to talk. I saw you talking with Xemax before she was captured last night."

As the bickering continued, T'Pol felt a profound sense of dismay. Chaos had taken over and even the president of the Council was resorting to name-calling and leveling accusations at fellow ambassadors. She pondered quietly how to proceed, when she saw Archer finally stand up.

"That's enough," he said. When the arguing didn't dissipate, he raised his voice. "That's enough!"

The room became still.

"When _we _created the articles of the Federation, you trusted each other enough to put century-old disputes aside."

Demvar said, "That was before we found out about Xemax. She's been with the Council almost since it's beginning."

Archer shook his head. "Years ago, the Romulans sent a drone ship to attack Enterprise. Its purpose was to create fear and mistrust among the different races – the Andorians, the Tellarites, the Vulcans and the Humans. Do you remember?"

Shran's antennae squirmed and T'Pol raised an eyebrow. The Andorian definitely recalled the event.

"This is different!" Gral argued, standing. Pounding his fist on the table, he grunted. "We are at the brink of war. Romulans, Orions and Arali have been boarding ships in and destroying them. They've even blown up a Starfleet vessel."

"Don't you think I know that! I was the admiral responsible for sending Columbia!" He looked down the table and then hung his head, softening his tone and lowering his volume. "I know. We _are _at the brink of war. What I'm suggesting is that we give our aides time to get back with us before doing anything rash. And I'm suggesting we continue with our normal business."

T'Pol agreed. "President Gral, although it would be foolish of us to discuss the most delicate of our daily business, I agree with Ambassador Archer's conclusion."

Shran crossed his arms. "I'm not sure. Gral has a point. By discussing war now, if it comes to that, we can act quickly."

"The moment you mention war," Archer said, "is the moment you turn in that direction. It's an Andorian proverb you told me one time."

Shran frowned. "You didn't get the translation quite right, Pink Skin, but you made your point. I thought you were against Ambassador Simon's peace expedition."

"Earth is behind it."

"But, you aren't," Shran said.

Jon was quiet.

Sera added her two cents. "I also think Ambassador Archer speaks rationally. I think it's best interest to keep Council business to a bare minimum to prevent further hostility."

One of the ambassadors, Kator of Siryn – an older man with brilliant shocks of white hair who kept mostly silent - stood up wearily. "How do we know that Xemax was spy?"

"What?" Archer asked.

"What if Starfleet captured her because of something she knew?" he said.

"No," Archer said.

"She knew about you and the Vulcan." His long bony finger pointed to T'Pol.

T'Pol asked, "What about us?"

Kator said, "She said you two were trading secrets and negotiating behind our backs."

"That's preposterous," Archer said.

"She had you under surveillance. The man she used provided this to me this morning." In his hand was a data chip. "The evidence should speak for itself."

The Vulcan exchanged a perplexed glance with Archer and he shook his head. As the Council room became deathly quiet, the old man set the chip in the console at the front of the room displayed the video. A scene unfolded, one that looked familiar to T'Pol.

A half-clothed Archer, dressed only in tux pants, made his way into her bedroom and the two sat on her bed whispering to each other. The audio was impossible to discern and the camera zoomed in as she placed a hand on his bare shoulder. The man gave her a sheepish grin and the two held each other's gaze.

Shran teased, "Oh, this oughta to be good."

Stupefied, neither T'Pol nor Archer said anything. She personally was too shocked to act, and she could only imagine Jonathan felt the same way.

Suddenly, the scene turned more lurid and the audio picked up slowly, as if naturally. Pushing her onto the bed, he bragged about how they'd deceived Captain Reed into thinking Xemax was a traitor and a spy. As their movements became more heated, T'Pol congratulated them on their cunning as Archer gave a purring laugh at the discussion. As if deception sparked allure, he made a passionate dash for her lips and the scene faded to black as if the person watching them decided to give them at least _some _privacy.

"That is not what happened," T'Pol said. "The data chip was been fabricated."

Kator continued. "You two lived together for a period of time."

Archer said, "We've been friends for more than ten years. She needed a place to stay."

"You go to her apartment every night," he said. "You have dinner together every night. You came to the banquet together, danced together. She had your jacket in her closet and still has some of your clothes at her abode. Is that friendship?"

T'Pol looked on with confusion wondering how much information they'd gleaned and Archer turned silent.

"It is not what you think," T'Pol said.

Gral shook his head. "Whatever relationship they have is irrelevant, they would never betray the Council."

Shran said, "Agreed, besides two ambassadors choosing to mate isn't against Council rules!"

Both T'Pol and Archer were about to speak up against that assumption, when the Andorian continued. "Ambassador Xemax should never have spied on a member of the Council. That in itself proves to me she's a liar and a traitor."

Kator said, "She told me she feared she would be taken because of Archer's strong ties to Starfleet. It's why she gathered this information."

Shran scoffed and waved a hand in the air to dismiss the old man.

Kator said, "Xemax learned a few more dark secrets that created these false charges. She learned that Romulans and Vulcans are related."

T'Pol steadied her heart as Shran laughed aloud. "That myth is older the one of a giant located in the north pole on Andoria who spins the planet to keep it warm enough to keep the entire planet from freezing."

"Xemax told me that myth is true," Kator said.

The room snapped into sharp focus as a few questioned the data chip, Archer's intentions and the status of Xemax.

Gral quieted everyone by smashing his fist against the table and squealing like a pig. When the chatter came to a halt, the Tellarite asked T'Pol pointedly.

"I have heard that a Vulcan never lies. Is the video we've just seen accurate?"

Glancing momentarily at Archer she turned to the President. "Only the first few minutes." At the gasps around the room, she continued, "The ambassador was injured during the scuffle to capture Xemax, and I was assisting him."

"On your bed?" Kator asked.

"Yes." At Shran's overeager smile, she explained more bluntly. "Ambassador Archer and I are not involved in a romantic relationship nor have we _ever _discussed deceiving this Council."

"What about the connection between Romulans and Vulcans?" Gral asked.

She looked down at the conference table and he prompted her with the question again.

"What about the connection between Romulans and Vulcans? Are Vulcans related to Romulans?" he asked.

"No," she replied. It was bold-faced lie, as the humans would've called it. There was no getting around it, no squirming around the truth or diverting it as she normally would've done. The situation called on total dishonesty and it shriveled her logic to do so, as if she was unfit to don her Vulcan robes or the title bestowed to her by Minister T'Pau.

Gral nodded. "I trust her."

Kator asked, "We merely take her word and move on?"

Shran agreed. "I think that's exactly what we should do."

"I'd like to recommend a vote on next steps," Kator insisted. "I'd like for Starfleet to release whatever information they have about Ambassador Xemax so that each ambassador here can verify it. And I propose we adjourn until then."

"That'll take weeks!" Gral said.

"So be it," Kator said.

Chaos erupted again and T'Pol watched Archer's face – a smidgen of a frown as if defeated – while remaining quiet. She spoke up for what she believed would also be his wishes.

"Did you not hear Ambassador Archer's words? _This_ is precisely what the Romulans want us to do. To adjourn the Council now would be--"

The ambassador from Coridan, Demvar, interrupted her. "Vulcan, _I _don't believe your species doesn't lie. I've been under Vulcan rule for too long to know that's not true. And although I don't care who you take to your bed, I think it's improper to have a relationship with a fellow ambassador. I may not agree with everything Kator said, but there is wisdom there."

T'Pol shook her head.

Sera spoke up. "I agree with Ambassador T'Pol. Disbanding the Federation now may have repercussions."

Darag, from the S'Ahad, rubbed his belly. "And continuing may have equal consequences."

The arguing intensified and the room was filled with angry words launched about war and ramifications, whether Vulcans really told the truth and if it was appropriate for two ambassadors to sleep with each other.

Gral squealed again and finally asked for a vote. It was close, but in the end there were more votes to disband and review the information Starfleet had at their disposal. When the tally was complete, Shran grumbled an Andorian curse and Sera mentioned her frustration to the President. The Tellarite accepted everyone's feedback and waved his hands.

"I'll ask Admiral Gardner to send each of you a disc with the information about Xemax."

Archer finally stood up and headed for the door.

Gral bellowed above everyone. "I haven't dismissed the Council."

"I don't see diplomats here. And the vote to disband has been reached."

With that, he walked out the door.

Once the doors swung closed, the Council erupted again and more allegations and accusations were tossed out, many of which were already discussed. Sera was the next to leave, then Shran and then Merah and the rest until finally it was down to just T'Pol and Gral in room together. With exasperation, the pig-man turned to her.

"What the larnok has happened today?" he asked.

T'Pol supposed the translator couldn't capture that word, which meant it was a curse Hoshi was unfamiliar with.

"I believe the Romulans won their first battle," she said.

"You waited for my dismissal," he said.

She nodded. "Although I understand Jonathan's sentiment, he left out of anger. If we are to support the Federation, we must always abide by its rules and regulations. You are its President."

Gral agreed. "I could tell the assertions against you hurt you. I'm sorry for what was said here today."

For a moment, she thought about coming back with how she was a Vulcan and didn't experience a bruised ego. Rather than do so, she merely looked at the little man and whispered a couple of words to him.

"Thank you."

---

By the time Archer made it to his office, he was fit to be tied. In one single day, they'd managed to destroy more than ten years worth of work in creating the Council. Hoping to stay in his office until he cooled down a little, his wishes were dashed; his aide barged in.

Stan was a red-haired young man with a face as innocent and inexperienced a high school students, despite being out of a college a few years. Although this naïve quality would help him remain youthful looking in his old age, it was a plain disservice to him now. Chubby cheeks covered with freckles and brown eyes that looked more pathetic than Porthos, he tugged at his suit jacket that looked one size too big and made his way into a chair.

"What are you going to tell the Prime Minister?" he asked.

Archer shrugged. "That false charges managed to bring down a 'United Federation of Planets.'"

"Are they false?" he asked quietly.

Pacing the room, he flailed a hand in the air. "Of course they are!"

"But, Xemax has been with the Federation for more than three years."

"I know."

"Kator has an excellent reputation."

"I know."

"And you and the ambassador from Vulcan have been together a lot."

That stopped the pacing. _The kid doesn't know when to shut up._

Stan asked, "Do you really think the Arali were planning something for _three years_?"

"Yes."

"Three years. It seems hard to believe. I'm not sure I do. And I notice the ambassador didn't deny parts of the video --"

Archer's face reddened and his heart beat speeding until he could hear the pounding in his ears. "Get out!"

As the young man scrambled to his feet and made a beeline for the door, Jon yelled out "And shut the door behind you!"

Once the door was closed and he had a moment to think, he balled his hands into two tight fists of rage. They'd destroyed the Federation and T'Pol's reputation in one fail swoop, shattering them both in less than an hour. They couldn't agree or disagree on declaring war because they were too caught up in hate mongering to do anything else.

He hadn't cared much for his own standing or what the Council thought, which he believed could withstand a few nasty remarks from an old geezer who was taking information from a spy. The horror T'Pol felt - and he knew despite only a slightly slack jaw, she was experiencing it – made him want to punch Kator, Demvar and anyone else who somehow chalked up that the Vulcan was a harpy.

Instead, he sat down and faced the window. The courtyard below was magnificent, a fountain spurted water into the sky and back down into a round container. Flowers, red ones and some yellow, were scattered around the grounds there, and children and their parents played on the grass. Some Starfleet cadets ate their lunch. It was serene and distraction enough for Archer to keep from letting his temper get the better of him.

After a while, and just as he managed to regain his composure, he heard a knock on the door. A blue face poked into his office without an answer.

"Stan said I shouldn't enter, but I told him I live dangerously."

Archer gave a small chuckle.

"May I?" Shran asked, slipping into a seat without really waiting for permission. "Some of the Councilmen, they're suspicious. Old wounds are hard to heal. It's no wonder the Coridan ambassador automatically ignores what T'Pol has to say. From his point of view, the Vulcans ruled his planet with an iron fist for more than 200 years."

He nodded. "I thought maybe Demvar would also remember that the Vulcans helped his planet by establishing more advanced medical practices and technology."

"Prejudice is hard to overcome."

Jon knew it, and gave a quiet sigh at the truth of the statement.

"Why didn't you ask to prove that the video was fabricated?" Shran asked.

"Part of it wasn't."

"Which part?"

He narrowed his eyes. "You know which part."

"You should prove your innocence."

"It doesn't matter."

"It hurt T'Pol, you should do it for her."

He hung his head as a response, agreeing with that statement, and Shran started telling a story.

"Every 200 years on Andoria, the temperature in the ice caves to the North reaches slightly above freezing. I had lived with the Aenar for only two months before the ice cave I used as a home began to melt. Jhamel asked me to stay with her until the thaw ended.

"Before long, our friendship turned to something else. Being in each other's company nearly every day in close quarters made us turn gre-nig for each other. And before long, we mated under the dripping water of her cave until the thaw ended."

Archer scowled at the information. He didn't want to hear about non-stop Andorian/Aenar mating during a flood.

"I thought I'd never recover from Talas' death. But, I did and I found Jhamel to be a good companion and lover."

"I'm glad things turned out so well for you," Archer said.

"Erika, the captain of the Columbia. She was a personal friend wasn't she?"

Startled, he jerked his head back. "She was."

"An intimate one." It wasn't a question.

"A long time ago." Archer shifted with discomfort. "What are you getting at Shran? You think I'm turning … gre-nig … for T'Pol?"

Shran pulled a flask out of his pocket and smiled. Unscrewing the cap, he made an observation.

"I have a hunch about you, Pink Skin. I'll tell you the part of the video I think is correct. I think you _were_ undressed in the Vulcan's apartment and I think she did touch your shoulder. I think the two of you whispered to each other and I think expression on your face was nervousness. That's the part of the data chip that's accurate. I don't think you're smart enough to take it further than that."

Taking a swig from his flask, the Andorian leaned forward and gave it to Archer who was frowning.

Shran said, "And you want to know _why _I think you were nervous?"

Archer smelled the Andorian ale and recoiled, but took a drink anyway. "No."

"I think you got nervous because you _wanted _to become intimate with her for that moment."

Archer rolled his eyes.

Shran said, "She's a good looking woman. Too good looking for you, but I don't think that matters so much to her."

"Shran, this really isn't helping."

He grinned. "It will eventually. And as the Council, when you prove the data chip was fabricated and they get a good look at the evidence against Xemax, they'll reconvene and apologize."

"I'm not certain anyone on the Council can move past the mistrust."

"It's always been a challenge."

"The Romulans might use this disarray to their advantage."

"You got hurry up and provide that data then." He hesitated. "You know, I can't blame everyone for being cautious. I think every ambassador knows the stakes. I know you disagree with Neville, and yet you have to support his peace mission. Not to mention everyone in the Council's probably wondering if there's another spy in the midst."

"We have to both assume there is another spy, and continue on as if there isn't though."

Shran didn't disagree.

Archer said, "Imagine if we have to declare war while the Federation is divided. Starfleet doesn't have the manpower to do it alone."

"The Andorians would join you." Shran sighed and tossed the data chip on Archer's desk. Grabbing his flask, he headed for the door.

"Oh, by the way, Jhamel wanted me to invite you and the Vulcan over for dinner tomorrow night. Can you come?"

Archer gave a slow nod.

Shran smiled. "Good. See you then."

Just as he was almost out of the office, T'Pol opened the door. Seeing her enter, after their discussion made the Andorian's day, his antennae wiggled with delight. An eyebrow was the only thing that met his glee and he excused himself to make room for her.

"Can you come to dinner tomorrow?" Shran asked before disappearing.

"Of course," she replied.

Beaming he told the two, "Be there at seven." And then he left.

Archer leaned back in his chair. "I'm sorry about what happened today."

"As am I. You seemed angry when you left."

He snorted. "More like outraged."

"Yes."

"Sorry," he whispered again. Getting up from his chair, he closed in on her. "Listen, Shran got a copy of the data chip."

"You'll ask Hoshi to review it for accuracy?"

"Yes. She can send her findings to the other ambassadors."

"Good." The Vulcan glanced out the window and then down at her shoes. "Until then, I wanted to discuss our friendship."

"What about it?"

"You expressed concern last night for inviting gossip. It appears you were correct."

"You think reducing the amount of time we spend together will quiet rumors?"

"Yes. The Romulans, Orions and Arali as well the Excelsior's mission of peace should be the Council's primary focus."

He gave a grudging nod. "I think you're right. Maybe we should agree not to see each other until Shran's dinner tomorrow night."

"Do you think it's wise we both have dinner there?"

He shrugged. _Probably not._

She said, "We should arrive and leave separately."

"Seems kinda odd to go out of our way to show others we don't have a romantic relationship when we don't."

"It is ironic." She was about to turn away and head out the door, when he caught her arm.

"You okay?"

"I am … disturbed that I have no privacy. And I am unsettled at the fragmentation of the Council."

"I know what they said bothers you, T'Pol."

"Somehow, Jonathan, I doubt I'm the target of their quest to ruin reputations. To besmirch my name only damages Vulcan. You helped create the Federation and have strong ties Starfleet. To ruin yours reputation is to shatter the alliance and the military; they have proven the first part of their supposition to be correct."

That was true, although it didn't bother him to think of his reputation being smeared. "Maybe you can ask Security to help jam recording devices around your apartment."

"Why? They will create what we do not provide them as if it were reality."

He nodded. That was true as well.

"I will see you tomorrow."

With that, the Vulcan left and straight away, Archer contacted Hoshi about proving the video was a fraud. More than that, it gave him an opportunity to ask how Malcolm was and stop by the Starfleet Medical to see the captain.

TBC


	17. Chapter 17

Firebird: Thanks for the reviews. He will! Give him a little time.

-------

Before Archer made his way to Starfleet Medical, he contacted the Prime Minister to tell him the bad news. Pulling up the man's visage in his office in Paris, he gave a slight smile; it was a nervous one.

"I'm afraid--" Archer started.

"Save it," Prime Minister Pelletier said. "I've heard everything."

_Stan_, Archer thought.

"I'd like you to continue to try and get the council reconvened."

Archer agreed. "Yes, sir."

The man then pushed back a few of his wiry gray hairs and blew out a small breath as if he was about to deliver some unwelcome news.

"You told me that you had a friendship with Ambassador T'Pol …."

"We're not intimately involved, if that's what you're asking."

The Prime Minister nodded. "I like knowing we can influence the Vulcans, but … I don't like the implications that have surfaced. I don't like hearing we're influencing the Vulcans because of a romantic relationship. I don't like hearing they're in our back pocket."

"I don't either."

"You know, I drafted you into this. I hope you feel comfortable enough to tell me if there is something--"

"There isn't."

The Prime Minister narrowed his eyes at the screen, as if testing the man. Archer didn't flinch.

Pelletier said, "I know she's a close friend of yours, but I'd like it if you two …."

Archer waited, rather than revealing he'd already agreed to cool off even their friendship.

He said, "Maybe you two shouldn't see as much of each other."

"We agreed to that," Archer said. "Although, it feels more dishonest to _not_ see each other. We've been friends for ten years and have been through a lot together. I can't tell you how many times we faced uncertainty and death together." He paused. "I can't tell you how many times she risked her life to save me."

Pelletier asked, "If you're trying to tell me you _want _there to be something--?"

He sighed. "No. I'm just letting you know …. I'm telling you it's an unfair and unnecessary inconvenience."

"Welcome to politics." Pelletier continued. "I appreciate your frankness. Continue to keep me in the loop if anything else surfaces."

"Yes, sir."

Before the connection broke, the prime minister leaned in a little. "I know it's a hassle, and I know I drafted you into politics. Once this blows over, I think you can pick up _wherever _the two of you left off."

Archer decided to level with the guy. "I lost track of T'Pol for one year. I didn't know where she was or what she was doing. When she came to Earth I was relieved that she was all right."

The Prime Minister sat back in his chair as Jon continued.

"I want you to know, I have the kind of friendship for her where I'm going to do everything in my power to protect her. And, I'll be damned if I lose track of her again." He folded his arms across his chest. "I'll agree to stop seeing her as often, but I can't promise to not see her at all."

"Sounds like you have mixed loyalties."

"No, sir. They're crystal clear. I'll defend Earth, but I'm going to look after my friends."

"I want you to be careful. You don't just represent your own interests."

"I know. That doesn't mean they're in conflict though."

"You might find they will be."

Archer frowned.

Pelletier said, "If anything new _situations _surface … the kind the implicate the two of you …."

"They won't."

"Keep it that way." The screen faded to black and Archer frowned.

----

Jon made his way to Starfleet Medical to drop the chip off and see how his former Tactical Officer was doing. Sneaking past the nurse at the main station, he made his way to the room he knew Malcolm Reed occupied. Without thinking, he pushed through the door and saw Hoshi and the patient lip-locked, obviously enjoying it.

"Damn hospital bed. Maybe if I lower it a bit--" Reed whispered as Hoshi giggled.

Jonathan Archer wasn't always the first man to pick up on signals, but decided the better part of valor was to walk quietly back through the door and knock on it to let the couple know he was there to visit. Stepping backwards back into the hall, he waited for a second and then knocked.

It took a few moments for Hoshi to answer.

"Yes?" she asked, slipping the door open.

Archer smiled. "I wanted to drop by. I hope I'm not disturbing you."

"Nah," she said. "Come on in."

Malcolm smoothed his hair down and gave a small wave. "Thanks for coming by."

"You bet, how you feeling?" he asked.

"Better. I didn't realize getting grazed in the side would keep me here so long."

Archer joked, "That's what happens when you try to be the hero."

"Last time I do that."

"I find that hard to believe," Archer said. "You did some great work. I knew you'd uncover whoever the spy was."

Reed gave a grin. "Well, Phlox uncovered it. The scans he performed showed she's an Arali. Apparently the doctor also uncovered that the Orions and Arali have similar DNA … as if the races were from the same offshoot."

Although Archer wasn't a scientist, it seemed natural. Most of the races were more than a billion years old and had time to travel or spread their space dust to other nearby planets. The word "connection" rang in his head until he realized a few minutes had passed and that Reed was still speaking.

Reed said. "… the MACOs confiscated various data chips Xemax made. It looks like she was hoping to blackmail various members of the Council."

"I know first hand," Archer said. Holding the data chip in the air, he indicated he and T'Pol had been wrongly accused. Hoshi took it immediately, indicating she would be happy to prove it was invalid when quietly, Jon admitted the entire video wasn't falsified, only the last part.

Reed said, "I was only able to watch a few, but it appears she has something on _everyone _in the Council. However, she seems to have focused her efforts on you and President Gral. Perhaps because you two have the greatest influence or responsibility?"

Archer frowned.

Malcolm lowered his voice. "There's also some potentially embarrassing information about T'Pol."

"What is it?" Archer asked.

"Xemax apparently recorded a private conversation between you and T'Pol where she admitted to failing some sort of test."

_The Kolinahr._ "Are these going to surface?"

"I hope not. Section 31 is working on rooting them out. But, obviously one slipped through to Ambassador Kator."

"If Kator had more, he would've brought them to light," Archer said. "He's an honorable man."

Hoshi sighed. "It sounds like Xemax went to a lot of trouble."

Reed said, "I think she knew we'd find out eventually. But, sir, there's more. They have a copy of a message T'Pol received from Trip's parents. And obviously there's manipulated data …."

"Like what?"

Reed shook his head. "Medical records forged by Dr. Phlox that T'Pol had at one time taken a recreational drug and been treated for it."

Archer's eyes narrowed. Although the admiral wasn't 100 percent certain, he thought T'Pol _did _use drugs recreationally in the Expanse. When she shattered the PADD against his desk out of anger and frustration, the captain was reminded of how irritable and distrustful his first officer was aboard the Selaya.

_Has to be false._

"What are you doing to make sure these don't surface?" Archer asked.

"A few things." Reed shook his head. "I can't reveal exactly what."

"How likely do you think it is more will leak?" Archer asked.

"I don't think people, except the Council, a few disgruntled members of Terra Prime and maybe the media, care. Hopefully they won't care enough to pay for it."

"I want to help," Archer said. Something about tapes floating around embarrassing Council members, especially T'Pol, irritated and angered him.

The captain said, "You're a civilian now, and a famous one. Getting involved would harm the work that's being done. I hope you understand."

Just as Archer was about to contradict the information, Reed shook his head.

"Jon, I know you want us to find them before anyone else does. We'll see to it. I've personally volunteered to head up the retrieval."

"Thank you."

Reed shifted with discomfort and gave an annoyed sigh. Fussing with his pillow he grumbled. "I'm tired of lying around."

Hoshi planted a kiss on his forehead. "Oh, stop being a baby, Malcolm. Phlox said he'd release you tomorrow."

"I'm telling you, I'm not bloody eating the mushed peas they've been feeding me tonight. Never tasted food so bad in my life."

Archer grinned. "Well, maybe a friend can stop by with something more palatable."

Reed smiled. "Will this _friend _get me a cheeseburger?"

Hoshi put her hands on her hips and shot a warning-glare to both men. "Not if he knows what's good for him."

----

Coming home to Porthos, Archer crouched down. It was strange not dropping by T'Pol's. He _had_ made a habit of doing so every evening just to say "hi" or determine if she'd had dinner. His little dog licked at his face and eventually his master half-heartedly scolded the animal and headed for his kitchen. Popping his head in the refrigeration unit, he noticed nothing worthwhile to eat except a T.V. dinner with meatloaf. With moderate interest he stuck it into the heating unit and slid open the top. Popping open a beer, he put on a game – football - he'd been wanting to see for a few weeks and sat in front of the television.

Although Porthos remained at his feet, licking his chops as if his master would toss him a morsel (which he eventually did), the meal was uneventful. The game didn't provide the kind of distraction he was looking for, especially since his team lost. He needed something else to keep his brain occupied.

If Trip had been alive, he would've called him up and asked him to "shoot some hoops." Sadly, the engineer was dead killed by a race of people represented now – no doubt – in the Starfleet Brig. There had to be a connection between the gem stolen by Shran, the death of his engineer and friend and the sudden interest in taking over a quadrant of the galaxy that was home to only a few planets, including Romulus, Orion and Aral.

Phlox's information about how the Orion and Arali were linked somehow – as if related – didn't really surprise him. What _did_ surprise him was the Denobulans were a common thread between the two.

Planet Earth was about 4 or 5 billion years old and humans only a couple of million (without arguing whether the species is more ape or more man). But, the Vulcans, Denobulans, Orions … their planets were older. Much older. Vulcan scientists had determined their desert planet was created more than 10 billion years ago. The planet at one point was too warm, due to the two suns in its solar system. A cataclysmic event threw the planet out of its orbit into a cooler one more than 5 billion years ago. Life sprang as water formed on the planet making Vulcan life almost a billion years of age. Andoria began much the same way.

Every species, or nearly every, they encountered were older than the humans. There was something humbling about it, and it meant the connection between the older races, ones that were in closer proximity to each other, was greater. Archer smirked about space matter. If Mars hadn't once sustained a modicum of life, Earth's animals would have never existed. Comets, whooshing by, contaminated planets from other solar systems with the DNA (including viruses and what not) of every planet in their wake.

_Ah, the mysteries of the universe._

It was a reminder that the universe was still connected, despite being unfathomably large.

Sipping at his beer, he chided himself. It was stupid to think he could answer the origin of the universe and the creatures that inhabited it, even if he enjoyed musing on it. Scientists, even the Vulcans, researched that very question without any answers.

As he polished off his beer, a flicker of thought zipped through his mind.

_Yes, but there is a connection. There is a connection between Vulcan and Romulus._

Archer blinked quickly and wondered exactly where that thought had come from, unsure that it came from him.

_What connection?_ he asked himself.

The spark died as well as the fleeting thought. Racking his brain, he tried to recall it, mostly because it seemed so important as if a major puzzle to his musings had come to light. It was like trying to remember the name of a childhood friend, something that was just out of grasp.

Sighing, rather than focus on it, he grabbed a book and headed for his bedroom to think about it instead of the problem at hand.

_Maybe it'll just come to me if it's so important._

---

As soon as T'Pol made it to her office, she contacted T'Pau right away to tell her the troubling news. As soon as the woman's image filled the screen, T'Pol spoke.

"I had hoped to call you under different circumstances, Minister. The United Federation of Planets has dissolved--"

"What?" T'Pau said. There was almost surprise in her voice.

"There was a vote to disband which was approved."

"How did this happen?"

"Ambassador Xemax has proved to be a traitor. She was arrested by Starfleet, and members of the Council wanted to verify why she was taken."

"I see."

T'Pol hesitated, her lips feeling suddenly dry. "There is something else. Ambassador Kator provided information from Ambassador Xemax. It was a video. Jonathan and I have been … implicated in a scandal which questions my allegiance and may bring shame to Vulcan."

"What is the scandal?"

"There is a data chip that implicates us … that we are together." At the minister's confused expression, T'Pol became more blunt. "Katelau." It was the Vulcan word for copulation.

The woman's eyes widened. "It is true?"

"No. It is a falsehood meant to embarrass both of us. Jonathan has asked to prove that it is a fabrication and present that information to the other ambassadors. I … apologize that this involves Vulcan."

"You have a friendship with Archer."

It wasn't a question. T'Pol decided to affirm it. "I do."

"How close?"

"Is there a more specific question?"

"You confided in me that you once had a relationship with another human. You said it might hinder your ability to serve Vulcan."

T'Pol stiffened. "I did. My relationship with Jonathan is not the same."

"And Archer's feelings?"

"He feels the same, of course."

T'Pau crooked an eyebrow in T'Pol's direction. "What will you do to minimize Vulcan's shame?"

"We have agreed to see each other less frequently."

"You believe that will quiet this scandal?"

"It is a step."

"I do not like hearing that we are at the whim of Earth, even if these allegations are false."

"I understand."

"How quickly did Archer say he would be able to clear you?"

"Unknown. It may take as long as three weeks."

"I believe you should stop communication with him during this time."

"Don't you think that's a drastic step?"

"No." T'Pau leaned forward. "Are you so accustomed to Earth's ways that you have developed human impatience?"

"No," she said. The words were said without emotion, though she felt herself bristle at the accusation.

"Good. Rather than recall you to Vulcan, I would like for you to continue your duties there."

"Very well."

"Contact me again when you learn more. Live long and prosper," T'Pau said.

When the screen shone to black, T'Pol felt her lips want to give way to a small frown. She held back, but _felt_ the emotion behind it nonetheless.

The moment she had seen the video of her and Archer, she had wondered just how quickly information about her and Trip would surface. Terra Prime already flaunted that information several years ago, it would hurt her prestige to be involved with another human.

_Perhaps it is why the information viewed today bothered me. There is a connection to Trip._

She _was _bothered. Several things about it disturbed her, not just that her privacy was wrecked or that the Federation had crumbled in a matter of minutes. It wasn't just the remembrance of Terra Prime, although that – and the memory of Elizabeth a child that born and died to embarrass her and Earth - upset her. Other things proved unsettling: like the thought there was someone who had information about her, a private moment between friends. It meant every conversation and moment between the two could've been recorded and reviewed … admissions about Trip. Admissions about her _feelings_. Truths spoken in whispers about her fears of seeming too human and doubts she had anything to bring the Council.

There was something else.

During the viewing of the video in the Council hall, she'd been surprised to notice that Jonathan had acted embarrassed of the moment. Knowing him ten years, she'd expected him to act enraged, angry, galled and spiteful, not defeated. Almost as soon as the lie was shown, she'd waited for him to rail against Kator and accuse him of deception, not hang his head.

When Jonathan Archer didn't like something or agree with it, he was quick to point it out. He didn't suffer the bickering in the Council room long; instead, he made a fast exit and vocalized how disappointed he was. Even working for him for years, she'd gleaned his style was to point out disagreements immediately rather than allow them to linger.

_Maybe it was the shock that prevented him from saying anything further?_

For a moment, she pondered T'Pau's question about Jonathan's feelings.

_He feels the same way, of course._

Dismissing her doubts, she looked at her terminal, scrolling through her communications. Hours upon hours passed as she reviewed each one in detail, making notes on a PADD beside her about the logic of the request, and placed them in various folders. The Council may've been disbanded, but it was her firm belief that she should continue to serve her planet.

Filing those requests away, and before leaving for the night, two communications came to her notice instantly. One was marked in symbols T'Pol barely remembered; the subject read "Yaa voosh a norai" meaning "all is well." The message was cryptic and in ancient Vulcan, a language that Vulcan school children were required to study, but a syntax and structure hardly anyone used.

Peering at her computer, she read the contents slowly, trying to remember the words she was required to scribble in her youth.

"We have been welcomed and are closing in on our destination. Our hosts contacted one of my friends personally. We should be there in one Vulcan day. The leader has asked us to refrain from communicating, which is why this may take some time to reach you. All is well."

T'Pol rose from her computer at once. This message, she gathered, was from Staron. They appeared to be closing in on Romulus. Perhaps Ambassador Neville Simon or Admiral Duvall requested no one send out a communication? She wondered which friend was personally contacted by the Romulans and hypothesized it was Simon.

Her fingers almost as a reflex contacted Jonathan, but instead let her hand slip away from the terminal. It was her job to represent Vulcan and the words T'Pau spoke echoed in her mind; impatience was a human trait.

Sitting down, she read the message again, resting her chin on pointed fingers studying the note. It was ingenious to use ancient Vulcan, a language that even Hoshi was unfamiliar with. It may've been foolhardy, though, to send out a communication. If it was a direct order from Admiral Duvall, Staron should've heeded it. On a starship, especially one on a diplomatic mission, radio silence was not only wise, but also imperative. By sending out this note, he may've compromised the ship and maybe even the mission.

Rather than respond, she copied the information to a personal data chip and wiped any record of it from her computer, ensuring to eradicate all traces. As a scientist, she could do so easily and with little effort. Stuffing the information into her pocket, she moved onto to the other intriguing note.

"Something you want," was the subject line.

Amongst the messages that T'Pol received on a regular basis, were advertising: promotions and sales on items that rarely ever interested her … at least not enough to inquire about them further. Apparently humans were eager to sell products anyway they could and more surprisingly, people actually wanted these nuisances. As she opened it, thinking it was an advertisement (but unsure enough to actually examine it), she dropped her jaw.

"Jonathan Archer is a dead man unless you get us information on the gem that Shran stole. We know you're having dinner with Shran tomorrow. Meet us afterward. 1 a.m. at pier 32. Be alone. If you tell anyone, we'll kill him."

Her breath stuttered.

She presumed the gem was the one reportedly back on Andoria where it belonged, the one Trip had given his life for in the end. Although she knew precious little about exactly what it was, she knew it was important enough for General Krag, the Andorian leader, to convene a covert operation personally asking Shran to lead it. At least that was Archer's explanation.

_Why is the gem so important?_

It was important enough that part of the plan to retrieve Shran's daughter was to fabricate something that appeared to look like the gem, but wasn't it. Somehow, T'Pol had gathered that Shran was keeping it or had spent it during his travels. Now she wondered whether there was additional value to this crystal.

Gazing at the message sent, she decided to view attached pictures - obviously recent ones – where her friend was in his office, in Starfleet Medical talking with Hoshi and Reed and traveling back to his home. There was one of him bending to pet his dog as he entered the door, a smile covering his face and one where the man looked lonely eating out of a tray in front of the television. And there was one of him reading, bare-chested and dressed in sweat pants, on his bed with Porthos curled up at his feet.

The date of the message was sent only a few minutes ago.

TBC

---

A/N: We'll hear about the gem more next chapter. The visit Shran asked T'Pol and Archer to pay isn't purely social.


	18. Chapter 18

A/N: I hope this isn't difficult to follow and begins to answer some of the questions brought up in the previous 17 chapters.

Republished to remove unnecessary/unwanted text at the end. Story hasn't changed. Sorry!

---

After T'Pol read the message again, the one where the author promised harm to Archer if she involved anyone else, she tried to logically think through how someone had managed to take the pictures. So, she studied each one in detail.

Looking at the one where Jonathan was in his bedroom reading, she wondered if someone had planted a camera in each of Archer's room or just one. One thing was certain, the photos were taken close up as if in his room.

_Was someone in the room with him?_

It seemed impossible.

_Maybe someone in a neighboring apartment? Jonathan likes to leave the windows open._

The others from his apartment appeared to be taken from the same vantage point near the door of the room. And the one in the car was stretched at an angle as if looking up.

Moving onto the one of Archer in the hospital with Captain Reed, she leaned in to inspect it. Nothing stood out on first. He was dressed in a brown corduroy shirt and blue jeans. Malcolm was clad in the white hospital gown with covers wound around his waist and Hoshi huddled next to him in a dress.

_Nothing out the ordinary._

And yet her brain couldn't move on … something was out of place.

Each wore a smile, as if sharing a private joke – Reed grinning mischievously, Hoshi tossing her head back and Archer hovered at the end of the bed, as she imagined he might, in a toothless grin. Zooming she spotted exactly what concerned her. One of Hoshi's hands gripped around Malcolm's and the other wiped her eyes.

_Hoshi._

Enlarging the photo again, T'Pol looked at Hoshi's hands. They were bare -- missing her engagement band – one she knew the young woman wouldn't be without.

T'Pol knew precious little about wedding ceremonies, but the one thing she'd gathered from the conversation with Hoshi and Jonathan was that women were given a token, a ring, that she would wear until the day of the wedding.

It was enough for her to tell the photo was doctored.

_Why would they send this to me? To prove they know where Jonathan is?_

Somehow, she doubted whoever sent this knew Hoshi was engaged and expected the quality of the image to have fooled her.

_Curiouser and curiouser_, she thought quoting _Alice in Wonderland. _

She left her office and when she got home, she decided to scan for a camera or any listening devices. Not surprisingly, she found one on a cloak she had in her bedroom, hung neatly on the closet door for easy access. Thinking back, she tried to remember when she'd last worn in and determined she'd been without it for a few days. For some reason, she hadn't worn it into the office.

_Perhaps someone added the device while it was here. Maybe security _would _help._

Although, it would be difficult to explain everything without bringing up the information about Archer. In the meantime, she would remove them herself and ponder about what to do with the information she was given.

---

T'Pol arrived at Shran's house at seven p.m., just as he requested. Although it was fall, she was able to see the exterior under the lighting of the old-style cast iron street lamps. The home was an Earth Victorian located on the edge of town with a scalloped roof and large windows. It had a yard, a significant one, with autumn flowers blooming, orange-leafed trees and toys abandoned in it. A small shuttlecraft was parked in front of a garage that was most likely used only for storage. Walking up the stairs to the front door, she mused that knowing how Andorians and Aenar lived, in caves, it was the last place she'd imagine them to choose as their abode.

Ringing the doorbell she waited for someone to answer the door. On the other side, she heard a small female voice shout above everyone's, enough to be heard clearly through the large wooden door.

"I'll get it! I'll get it!" Tallah announced loudly. "I'll get it!"

T'Pol could hear someone bolting down some stairs and then sprinting to the door. Throwing it open the little blue girl smiled showing all her teeth.

"Hello!" she said.

T'Pol raised an eyebrow and stared down at the little creature. "Good evening."

"May I take you coat?" she asked.

"I didn't bring one. This is my robe."

"Oh. I was supposed to take your coat."

T'Pol was about to reason with the child, when Shran emerged behind her wearing an apron and a large grin.

"Never mind, Tallah." As if waiting for someone else to walk through the door, the blue man looked behind her. "Where's the Pink Skin?"

"We're coming separately."

"He said you live two blocks away."

Hesitantly, she agreed. "Yes, but given what happened the other day …."

He frowned. "You shouldn't take what people say so seriously." Grumbling as if to himself, he corrected his statement. "Well, I guess you take everything seriously; you're a Vulcan."

An eyebrow flicked at the comment.

"I'll take you on a tour," Shran volunteered patting his daughter on the head and pointing her to the kitchen. "Go help your mother."

Tallah was about to put up a fuss when the blue man's antennae rose in a fatherly manner – threatening, but not meaning any real harm.

"All right," she said.

As the Andorian toured her around, she took in the detail of their place. It was strewn with beautiful antique lights and fixtures all from around the turn of the 20th century and some of the furniture matched the house, as if it was part of the bargain. Thrown in were strange Andorian artifacts that seemed somewhat out of place like the ice pick Shran used as a boy and a shimmering veil that Jhamel had at their wedding (it was a custom to keep it and frame it).

It was a four-bedroom house, laid out like a box. Tallah's bedroom, which she apparently complained was too pink, held delicate wallpaper with tiny roses. Frilly white curtains hung around shutters and a dollhouse was placed in the corner with stuffed animals having tea. In amongst the pictures of horses and kittens was one of the Imperial Guard's insignia – black – with dark blue letters (the color of Andorian blood) that read "Pride. Honor. The debt of Andorians." And a porcelain doll, humanoid, lovingly held a pick in its miniature hands.

Shran and Jhamel's room had a bed that matched the form of a body – it was kidney shaped with round pillows at the head. Hung around it was a thin sinewy veil and various candles as if to spark a romantic mood or give the room some lighting. The walls were painted a light ice blue, probably to mimic the caves of Andoria, and ivory wisps hung around a large oval window to both encourage and repel light.

The bathrooms, of which there were two, were both modern and sleek – a sharp contrast to the rest of the house. As he took T'Pol into one, which was framed with steel, he argued that it was easier to just "go" in a ice hole pointing out the absurdity of commodes. As T'Pol tried to explain human sanitation, the doorbell rang again.

_Jonathan._

Shran continued the tour as Tallah and Jhamel went through the same comical quest to answer the door with the daughter winning the contest by sheer volume. Squealing with delight, the little girl greeted the guest.

"Pink Skin!"

Shran, still upstairs with T'Pol, pointed to another door, ignoring the chaos downstairs. "They can take care of Archer. I wanted to show you this. This is for the baby."

"When is your child due?"

"Three months from now. We don't have much time to get the nest ready."

T'Pol understood the information about "nesting" was literal. Andorians built a nest for their young of items that were meaningful and might keep the child warm and comfortable. Bits of cotton, furs and other blankets were bundled into a round pile in the corner. Eventually, it would be almost the size of a human crib.

"Do you know the sex of your offspring?" she asked.

"A boy," Shran announced proudly. "We found out shortly before we left. I've already asked Phlox if he could deliver our child." Narrowing his eyes, he said, "I don't trust _human _doctors."

Shuffling T'Pol to another room, the Vulcan glanced around – it was an office and something that served Jhamel's craft projects, which were piled neatly on a long table. Two overstuffed leather chairs were huddled together and the blue man suggested she sit in one.

"They are made of animal skin," she said.

With a frown, he nodded. "Right. You'll never know _just _how comfortable those babies are."

"I believe I'll be able to survive without that knowledge."

The tour came to abrupt finish and Shran brought her back downstairs to wait in what was the living room.

"You like something to drink, Vulcan? We have Andorian ale and water."

"I'll have ale."

"You astonish me, Vulcan," he said. "I like it."

With a sly smile, he ventured off to get some for her. Waiting in the cozy room, adorned in warm golds and embellished with accents of red, she folded her frame into a mustard-colored chair.

When Archer finished being led around the house by Tallah who appeared to be dragging him from area to area, he wound up in the living room. Both gave each other a hesitant "hello" and sat down in chairs on the opposite side from each other.

"My wife is finishing dinner," Shran said. Depositing two ales with his friends, he sat on the vacant couch.

"Your house is quite aesthetically pleasing," she said. Although it was a human custom to comment on such trivial matters, she thought the Andorian might appreciate the sentiment.

Shran said, "This house is too … ornate. But, it allows Tallah to go to a school where there are other aliens."

"I hear the Federation school is quite good," T'Pol remarked.

Shran nodded. "I have met the teachers and although they have too many Vulcans, my daughter's education is acceptable. Almost as good as an Andorian school."

T'Pol gave Archer a quick glance, noticing he shook his head at the comment.

"Well, I think it's a nice home. Reminds me of the kind my family lived in when I was younger," Archer said.

Shran said, "That's right. You're from San Francisco."

"Lived here more than twenty years."

Shran placed his hand around his cup and extended it outward. "Here's to friends,"

T'Pol hoist hers forward slightly as Archer did the same. Noticing both men threw their drink back, she sipped at hers and coughed slightly after the first drink. It was potent, more so than she remembered.

Tallah, bringing a toy in battle gear offered showed it to Archer and then offered to sit in Jon's lap. Before she could settle in, her father shooed her away.

"The adults are talking, honey."

A frown met with eventual obedience. The girl in the jumper ran off to help her mother, and as she did, Shran put his elbows on his knees.

"Friends, I didn't ask you hear just for social reasons," Shran said. "Well, I didn't ask here _merely _for social reasons." His smile met Archer's frown.

"Why _have _you asked us here?" T'Pol said.

"I've placed jamming devices – they're specially encrypted to keep out any device – audio or video. We can talk confidently here."

T'Pol was quiet, quelling the urge to bring up how she had found spying equipment (both audio and visual) around her apartment.

"It appears Xemax has been gathering information about the Council and its members," Archer said. "I think she's been gathering it for a while."

"To what end?" T'Pol asked.

Shran's antennae wiggled and reared back slightly. "As diplomats for our planets, we're entrusted to keep … secrets. I think she wants to ensure the Council never reforms by exposing them."

"I think you're right," Archer said.

"The Andorian Black Squadron gave me information today. Whoever Xemax is working wants to know where the gem is … the one I stole several years ago."

T'Pol remained silent wondering if it was wise to tip her hand.

Shran said, "Almost two years ago on Enterprise, I asked you to trust my judgment and build a replica of a gem that I claimed to have stolen. And you know I took it on behalf of my government."

"That's what you claimed," T'Pol said.

A slight frown spread over his mouth. "But, I never told you why." He paused and then continued with a hushed voice. "It's not a gem per se, it's a _crystal_."

"A crystal?" T'Pol asked.

"A dilithium crystal."

"A what?" Archer asked.

"Dilithium. It's a rare crystal that Andorian scientists have found can fuel starships at warp seven … while shields are on maximum … and at the same time firing phasers and photon torpedos."

Archer nearly spilled his drink as T'Pol's mouth hung open slightly.

"Impossible," Archer said.

"Oh, it's possible." Shran said, "It's also easier to maintain that plasma."

"How does this involve the Arali?" T'Pol asked.

"The Arali found the crystal and were on the verge of discovering exactly how powerful it was when refined … and which planet it was found on. The Andorian government couldn't allow that to happen. So … I took it from them. They've been looking for it … and me … ever since."

_A gem the size of two fists powering a starship? _T'Pol must've looked skeptical because Shran pointed to her.

"It's the truth, Vulcan," the blue man hissed.

Archer held his hand in the air to quiet the Andorian. "Why didn't you tell us sooner?"

"The Andorians …." He shot a glance to T'Pol. "We wanted to keep the technology a secret. We were afraid of who might use it."

"Like the Vulcans?" Archer asked.

"Among the aliens we were concerned with – yes."

"If the technology is as you say it would be difficult to keep clandestine," T'Pol said.

"You can understand why the Andorians pushed me underground for so long."

"Why emerge?" T'Pol said.

"My family. They had my little girl … you may not think much of me, T'Pol, but I'm not the type of man to abandoned his family. Once I forfeited my cover, I was useless as a spy."

The Andorian and Vulcan stared at each other, when T'Pol finally acquiesced.

"I believe you made the right decision. Besides, negotiations – surprisingly – seems to be a strong suit of yours."

The two old enemies/friends softened and Archer gave a grin.

Just as the three were about to talk more about dilithium crystals, Jhamel emerged from the kitchen.

"Dinner is ready," she called.

Shran shook his head, as if indicating not to involve his wife. "We'll discuss this more later." And then with a henpecked voice, he announced. "Coming!"

---

The three made their way into the dining room as Shran and Jhamel sat at a round table. Andorian custom was to put couples side-by-side, which arranged the seating for Shran and Jhamel to sit together. When Tallah scrambled to sit in between the two guests, her mother reached a pale blue hand around her arm.

"Tallah, I want you to sit by me, so I can ensure you eat all your fish."

"Fish?" T'Pol asked.

Shran's antennae reared back. "Don't worry, Vulcan, we prepared something just for you. Vegetables."

Gently guiding the napkin into her lap, T'Pol thanked her guests.

When bowls of raw food passed around the table, and everyone except T'Pol used their fingers to dive in, Jhamel started a conversation.

"Thank you for joining us tonight. We have so few friends in town. It's such a treat to have you both here."

"It's nice to be invited. I haven't eaten a home cooked meal in … in a while," Archer said.

"You need a woman's touch, Pink Skin," Shran announced.

Archer shot him a warning glare and the blue man waved it off. "Bah! I hear human females cook. Why don't you get one to cook for you?"

Jon hid a laugh, nearly choking on an ice-cold piece of cod. "That's not really the way it works--"

"I was twenty pounds thinner until Jhamel and I mated in the ice cave. Since then she has cooked and cleaned for me like an Aenar female. It's nice. If I was married to an Andorian, I would do all the housework."

Jhamel giggled almost like a schoolgirl.

"Listen--" Archer began.

Jhamel, who was not known to interrupt spoke up. "Jonathan doesn't want to hear about married life."

Pleased the human smiled.

"Probably why he's remained a bachelor all his life," Shran said.

At the feeling of Archer beginning to become irate, T'Pol changed the subject. "Was it difficult to move into a house already furnished?"

Tallah answered before her mother could. "Oh, yes! The Pink Skins enjoy luxury like cushy beds and couches. On Andoria, we sit on hard material, like metal. It's how we stay nimble and ready for combat."

"And the food?" T'Pol asked of the child.

"I do like … what is it called … pizza!"

"A universal constant," Archer said, kidding.

Jhamel quietly agreed. "The accommodations here are warm and soft. It has taken some getting used to. Even on Aenar we sit on the skins of animals."

T'Pol quivered slightly.

Shran agreed. "Twice Tallah has broken out into a rash at the synthetic material you use. It's reassuring to sit on something freshly killed. You know what I mean, don't you, Pink Skin?"

"I've never really been hunting."

Shran dropped his food onto his plate and his antennae stood at attention. "A man such as yourself has never had the glory of taking an animal's life and wearing the beast's pelt about your shoulders?"

Archer shook his head.

Shran pointed to T'Pol. "Even Vulcans track animals and kill them as part of a rite to man or womanhood. You human men are emasculated."

Archer's eyebrows raised as T'Pol intercepted.

"The rite to adulthood is not to kill an animal; it is to prove that a young one can survive in the desert. Killing an animal is sometimes necessary to survive. There is a technique we use to be humane to the animal …."

A fin hung out of Shran's mouth as he waved her off. "Same difference."

The conversation continued, pointing out cultural differences in such a way that T'Pol heard Archer laugh several times – with genuine amusement and look on with genuine confusion – as she felt some strange kinship to the Andorians. Human customs were peculiar and even her time aboard Enterprise hadn't prepared her for things that seemed like every day life here, including cursing at someone who angered you for something petty like inadvertently getting in line before you, the idea of "to go" at restaurants, going to a bar after work to grouse with co-workers and the humans' insistence on using communications devices everywhere they went to ensure constant contact.

When as many differences were mentioned as possible, Shran began to clear the dishes away as Tallah climbed into Archer's lap and stared up at him.

"My father says you're a good man."

Archer grinned and settled the girl into his lap, letting her sit there.

Shran said, "You're a natural with children. Don't you think so, T'Pol?"

Archer sighed noisily.

T'Pol understood Shran's intention, but believed the comment was harmless. "He seems so."

After they talked for a bit about how Jhamel picked the house, which Shran complained lovingly was why they'd ended up in an old human home that smelled like the under side of a farmok (which T'Pol supposed was an animal), the group moved to the living room again. T'Pol was given some Andorian tea – a brew that was strong, almost like coffee – Shran tapped Archer's shoulder and the two sneaked into the office upstairs.

Jhamel, pouring a cup of tea for the both of them, sat next to her daughter and wrapped her arm around the child.

"I must apologize for my husband's behavior tonight. He is proud and arrogant, not knowing some social graces."

T'Pol agreed silently.

The Aenar said, "I understand you have chosen a house in the city. Do you find it agreeable?"

"I do. It is convenient, close to home and has amenities for Vulcans."

"I'm glad. Do you miss your home?"

"It is strange. I have lived among humans for so long, I think of them as home."

"I'm pleased to hear you say that. I can imagine it is comforting to be around so many friends."

"It is."

"Shran would never say this, but when he went underground years ago, he was cast out of Andorian society. Taking this position, being an ambassador, may enable him to curry favor with his people again."

"But, the General himself asked him to become a spy?"

"He did. And for Andoria's benefit. Unfortunately, the Andorian people don't see it completely that way. They think of Shran as a lowly thief … a criminal who was awarded favors because he knows the leader of Andoria."

"I had not realized."

"He has too much pride to confess that. However, since his assignment here he has esteem … more so than for years."

"He has done an … admirable job. I have not always agreed with him, yet I find his logic to be mostly sound."

Jhamel smiled. "Shran would be both happy and terrified for you to call him logical."

At that the Aenar and her daughter laughed as T'Pol poked an eyebrow up, amused.

----

Shran brought out a box and grinned virtually from ear to ear as he snuggled into a leather chair across from Archer. Picking out a blend he preferred, and smelling it, he then offered it to the human.

"Humans have one vice I like … other than mating and drinking that is."

"I haven't had a cigar since I graduated from college," Archer confessed. "And that was … God … that was a long time ago."

Shran laughed. "We'll join the women in a moment. I thought the two of us could sit peacefully without their gossiping."

Archer narrowed his eyes and ruminated that neither T'Pol nor Jhamel were the type to "gossip."

Lifting a glass of Andorian ale to his lips, the blue man looked at Jon. "Thought more about what I said yesterday, Pink Skin?"

Sincerely confused, Archer shook his head. "What did you say?"

"You should acknowledge your feelings for her. I know it may create friction for you and Earth, but I think it would be best for you and the Vulcan."

"What makes you think I have feelings for her?"

"I know you. I know the way you think and the motives behind the actions you take. Much of what Ambassador Kator said was right – you've lived with her, danced with her, had dinner with her every night. I don't have to be an expert in humanity to know you're courting her."

A huff left Archer's mouth, so Shran continued.

"I don't understand what all the fuss is about. So, you want to mate with her. Big deal. They can't toss you out of Starfleet and they can't throw you outta the Council … especially now that it doesn't exist."

Jon put the cigar down in the ashtray in front of him. "On Earth, men and women work closely together without letting it become intimate. I don't know if what's--"

"Nah!" Shran said, puffing on his cigar. "Pink Skin, I've known you almost eleven years. You want her."

Rolling his eyes, Archer disagreed. "She's a friend."

"What's the real issue?" Shran asked. "You afraid of the husband she had?"

"There is no issue."

"What about Tucker?"

"What?"

"Ah, it's Commander Tucker."

"There is no issue. T'Pol and I are friends. That's it, end of story."

Shran sighed and then swallowed the last of his ale, refilling his and Archer's drink. The blue man eyed him suspiciously.

Archer leaned back into his chair. "You don't need to play matchmaker for me. I like everything the way it is."

"Well, then if you don't want T'Pol … Jhamel has made a friend. A redhead," Shran said. "Blue eyes with light freckles over her face. For a human, she's attractive. Newly divorced with no children."

"No thanks."

"Thin, but not overly so … not like the Vulcan. This woman is voluptuous in all the right places, if you catch my drift. I like women with large--"

"Why are we having this conversation?"

"You need an outlet. Actually, I think you've needed one for some time, but I think this woman with her child-bearing hips could rear you some--"

"Quit it," Archer said. Standing up, he shoved his hand in front of him to prove he meant business.

"All right. All right, I'm sorry. I won't talk about Miranda again." Jon slunk into one of the seats as Shran spoke. "Although Jhamel mentioned you might be available and she mentioned she might be willing to meet you."

"Well, I don't know. I don't like being set up --"

"She's seen your picture. For some unknown reason she thinks you're quite a catch."

_Quite a catch? _Blushing, he shook his head. "I just … I don't think it's right."

"I got a picture of her." Shran waggled his eyebrows and snuck into Jhamel's craft area, rummaging through drawers, until he found a photo of the woman.

"I don't really want to--"

Shran leaned over and showed a picture of a dazzling-looking woman around 40 with dark red hair – obviously not dyed – and big blue eyes. Something in them sparkled as if she was amused at a joke. As Archer took the picture into his hand, the thing he noticed was this was a shot of her in a casual moment. She was the kind of woman who seemed to shine no matter the circumstance. It wasn't just that, Shran was right – for a woman in good shape, she was curvy.

"See what I mean about soft in all the right spots?" Shran asked.

Archer shoved the picture back into Shran's hand. "Will you stop playing matchmaker? My life is just fine right now."

Shran's antennae whirled as he poured more ale. Blinking quickly, the admiral was already finding it a little difficult to think. The cigar, which was extraordinary, had sped up the feeling of being light-headed.

"Your life is great, huh? Then why spend all your time with the Vulcan?" Shran asked.

Archer sighed loudly. "I've already explained. She's a friend."

"Uh-huh."

Silence.

"Pink Skin, did you notice when the video played, T'Pol looked at you for permission to disagree? I have to wonder if part of her didn't mind that people thought you two were an item. Thought about asking her, but--"

"I know you find it entertaining to bother T'Pol about this kinda stuff, but don't. She may not say so, but the allegation disturbs her."

Shran's antennae went back as he filled the admiral's drink. Jon threw it down his throat and another was poured readily.

Pointing, his cup still in his hand as if on a soapbox, Jon continued. "T'Pol's been through a lot to get here … to get to Earth … to become an ambassador. More than you'll ever know. Hell, more than I'll ever know."

"Oh, I think you're--" Shran began, when Archer cut him off.

"She's done a damned fine job, too. Despite all the rumors and allegations tossed in her direction, wrongly so, she's been one best diplomats to ever walk through the Federation doors." Archer paused. "Gral told me she was the last to leave the Council room the other day. I mean that's the kind of dedication she has for the Federation and for her planet."

Shran nodded, thoughtfully.

"I wished people remembered things like that. I wished people remembered _she_ was on Enterprise saving Earth from the Xindi, too; I didn't do it alone. I couldn't have done it without her. She doesn't get half the credit she deserves."

Shran opened his mouth, when Jon kept going.

"She sacrificed everything – her career, her home and her family to help us. It's that loyalty … that supercedes duty." He gave a laugh. "I've always admired that about her. And I think it's why--"

"Good grendal!" Shran cut him off. "It's worse than I thought."

"Huh?"

"You're in love with her."

Archer shook his head. "Not in the way you think I do."

"How many types of love do men have for women on Earth?"

"Shran, you and I are friends. I … admire you. Do you think I'm in love with you?"

The blue man's eyes narrowed. "I don't know, Pink Skin, I've seen the way you look at me sometimes. With want."

And as if neither man could keep a straight face, they both broke into a fit of hearty laughter. After the two stopped chuckling, Shran finally gave in.

"All right. I won't bother you about Miranda … and I won't mention the Vulcan again … tonight."

"Thank you."

"I …. I want you to be happy. Settle down. Have a family. You deserve that. And so does the Vulcan."

"I know you mean well."

After smoking their cigars and finishing their drinks, quietly enjoying each other's company, the two made their way back down.

----

The women chatted about a few things, but T'Pol found herself a little nervous. Although the message she'd received specifically told her not to talk about it to anyone, she wondered if Shran and Archer weren't _exactly _the people she should talk to. In addition, the information about the dilithium crystal sounded intriguing. If she decided not to reveal the contents of the communication she'd received, the least she could do is find out more about the gem and share that possibly with whoever asked her to be at the pier at 1 a.m. to save Jonathan's life.

"You seem distracted. Is everything all right?" Jhamel asked.

For a moment, the Vulcan wondered whether the Aenar was reading her mind.

"I _am _distracted. I apologize. It's not the company, I assure you."

"Anything you wish to discuss?"

"No."

Jhamel waited for a few moments. "T'Pol, I never thanked you for ensuring the safety of Tallah and me the other night at the party."

She'd forgotten it completely.

"I'd like to repay you in some way."

"Tonight's dinner is payment enough. It was excellent."

Jhamel shook her head. "I'd like to do something else. I could give you something … information."

"What kind?"

"You'll forgive me. My telepathy skills have only strengthened with age. Occasionally I'm able to pick up thoughts or feelings. Stray ones."

T'Pol furrowed her brow.

Jhamel said, "I know you've been wondering … worrying … about Archer's feelings about you."

There had been times during the night where she'd echoed in her mind T'Pau's question about whether Jonathan felt the same way. It had been after he'd caught her eye and smiled. More than that, she was concerned that the leader of her government had found out that she'd met Jonathan again despite her explicit instructions not to.

"That has been the least of my concerns."

"You are worried, though."

"Am I speaking in confidence?" T'Pol asked.

"You're asking me if I can keep this from my husband?"

"Yes. Precisely so."

"Of course. The Aenar have a saying, T'Pol: a life bond supercedes any other."

T'Pol nodded. "Jonathan's behavior when the video was shown was … odd. He appeared timid and embarrassed rather than angered. It is … unlike him."

"I think he was quietly angry," Jhamel said. "He too has been concerned about you. At least that's what I've been able to discern. I haven't --"

T'Pol waved her hand to dismiss the information. "I understand you are a powerful telepath. It is said some Vulcans cannot be in the same room with those who exhibit emotion because they will experience it as if it is their own."

"That's exactly the feeling sometimes. Although, my people don't eschew emotions, so it's not as difficult."

"You were saying--?"

"Archer was surprised and perplexed by his own reaction. And yet since then he has worked very diligently to prove your innocence."

"There was a time in my hallway where he thought I was entertaining a man. He seemed nervous by the information and felt the same anxiety because of comments Shran made."

"Then, you don't really need my analysis, do you?"

T'Pol was about to ask more when the guys made their way down the stairs wreaking of cigar and stale alcohol. As the Vulcan's nose twitched, Shran pointed to the couch and Jhamel who lounged on it.

"Is my wife not the most gorgeous creature alive?" Shran asked.

Jhamel giggled into her hand and Shran nestled next to her, grabbing his daughter into his middle. "Tallah, you're lucky to have your mother's good looks."

Archer gave a smile. "You have a beautiful wife. Not quite sure how you hooked up with her."

Shran laughed as Archer sat in the chair he occupied earlier across from T'Pol. He exchanged a quick glance with her and then focused his attention back on their blue hosts.

"I need to help Tallah into bed," Jhamel said. At Tallah's immediate irritation and protests, Jhamel took her by the hand and then led her to her bed.

When the two were out of eyesight and earshot, Shran lost some of his levity. "I'm concerned Xemax and her people know about dilithium crystals. It's … it's part of the reason I wanted you here tonight under _my_ jamming signals."

"You should bring this information to the Federation," T'Pol said.

Shran said, "What Federation? We've disbanded."

"You think the Arali, Orions and Romulans are working together to figure out what the gem was?" Archer asked.

"Yes," Shran said.

T'Pol licked her lips. "I … I received a message yesterday that indicated they would kill Jonathan if I didn't provide information about the gem you stole."

Both men stared at her. Archer immediately hunched over. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"They indicated they would harm you if I did so. I feel like bringing the information up even now is … dangerous."

"You would betray me, Vulcan!" Shran asked standing up.

"No," she said. "I was asked to meet them at the pier tomorrow morning at 1 a.m. I was uncertain exactly what I would do or what I would tell them. I was concerned they would kill Jonathan … something they promised to do."

Archer waited.

"They sent pictures to me of your activities. You visited Hoshi and Malcolm in the hospital, greeted Porthos and then ate dinner in front of the television. At the end of your evening you read alone in your bedroom."

The shock on Archer's face was difficult to miss.

T'Pol said, "You can understand my hesitancy."

"I can't believe it," Shran said. "This confirms my fears about these people."

"You should've let me know," Archer said with disappointment.

"It was hard to know where listening devices _weren't _installed. And … Minister T'Pau asked me not to see you."

"You did anyway," Archer said.

"I was … I was worried for your life. I determined either way, the choice to come here was logical. Either I would gain information about the gem or I would warn you."

Shran said with sarcasm, his antennae squirming, "Well, I appreciate you decided to level with us, then."

T'Pol said, "You indicated this was a safe environment. It seemed a wise decision."

Before Shran could argue back, Archer held up his hand. "I think if they wanted to kill me, they would've done so already."

The blue man nodded. "I agree with him. I think they're preying on you and your friendship with the Pink Skin, T'Pol. I think they hope you'll give them the information."

"What do you propose?" she asked.

"We could simply not go," Shran said.

"Or, we could go with you to the pier," Archer said. "We could see who these people are."

She said, "Your biosigns. They would be able to detect them."

Shran shook his head. "Maybe not. I have information that the Tellarites have created a way to block scanning signals."

Archer knitted his brow as Shran shrugged and explained how he knew. "I was in the Andorian Black Squadron. I _know_ some things. I'll contact him on a secure line." Jutting his jaw forward, he announced why Gral would help. "He owes _me _a favor."

When the Andorian left to go to his terminal upstairs in the office, Archer turned to T'Pol. "Reed said today that they had information about you, as well. They know you didn't pass the Kolinahr."

"It only hurts my reputation with those on Vulcan."

"They have other things, like a message from the Tuckers to you."

She bristled a little. "There is nothing in it that implicates me."

Archer frowned. "They have a medical chart from Phlox about taking a drug in the Expanse."

"What?"

"They have medical information that indicated you took some sort of recreational drug in the Expanse." Hesitating, he asked another question. "It's manipulated data, isn't it?"

She was quiet.

"Is it?"

T'Pol stared down at her lap. "Jonathan, there are things--"

"It's true?"

"Phlox treated me for a drug addiction in the Expanse. Trellium."

With one loud exhalation of breath he sat back in his chair. "T'Pol."

"I … I thought you'd always known."

He shook his head. "I had an inkling, but I wasn't certain."

"Jonathan--"

"Trellium?" he asked. It was clear by his tone of voice it was the last drug he expected her to take.

"Yes."

Looking over his features, he seemed reluctant to meet her eyes.

"You think less of me?" she asked.

"No. It's not that."

She waited.

"I just … I don't know. I wish you'd told me." A little incredulous, he continued. "I think over the years you had _plenty _of opportunities to tell me."

"I didn't want to disappoint you."

He frowned.

"Perhaps it's more disconcerting to learn now?" she asked.

"I don't know," he said. Without looking at her, he asked, "Is there anything else you're hiding from me?"

"I didn't hide the information about the trellium."

"You didn't?" he asked. "Phlox was required to tell me. Starfleet regulation--"

"He's Denobulan."

"You purposefully hid it."

In way, he was right and she bowed her head finally under the weight of an age long secret. "I am not hiding it from you now. I didn't realize it still mattered to you."

Gazing up, she wanted him scratch his head in discomfort. There was silence between the two friends and for a moment, T'Pol wondered why he had taken the information so poorly. The addiction was seven years in her past … seven years and what seemed like a lifetime ago.

"Jonathan, T'Pau asked me a question that I think perhaps I should put to you."

"What is it?"

"I debriefed her on the data chip Ambassador Kator presented to the Council the other day."

"Yeah?"

"She asked me what my feelings were. And, I indicated the two of us were friends."

He nodded.

"She asked what your feelings were. And I told you felt the same."

"So, what's the question?"

"Do you?"

"Do I what?"

"_Do _you feel the same as I – do you feel only friendship?"

"What? Why are you asking me?"

"I've been thinking about it."

"I think you know the answer, T'Pol."

"I'm … forgive me. I'm not certain I do."

Licking his lips, he was about to answer, when Shran came back down the stairs.

"The pig is on his way."

The room felt thick and heavy, causing the Andorian to look between the two. "You heard me, right?"

"Yes," Archer said. Turning his head to T'Pol he looked her in the eye. "Of course."

As Shran boasted about how he was right and had to convince Gral to eventually "come clean" about technology, T'Pol's mind wandered. For a second, she believed that Jonathan's answer was more difficult and convoluted than the one he gave … if he was talking to her, that is.

Tapping the side of her temple, she thought about the pictures taken of him and listening devices that began all this trouble. Although she didn't mind the Council members hearing about her ill-fated attempt to purge emotions, she disliked thinking they may learn about her addiction and why she fell into one.

_The past can never be escaped._

It was a Vulcan proverb and one that resonated with her, particularly now. The thought somehow sparked a new conundrum -- the subject of the communication threatening Jonathan stuck in her brain: something you want.

_Why wasn't it something "we" want?_ Instead, it was "something you want."

_Perhaps they think I am attached to Jonathan. _

Staring over his features, she tucked a piece of hair behind her pointed ear and he met her eyes briefly. Vulcans, logical beings, didn't _want_ things. Mating was conducted at a logical point in time and families began when the cycle had rationalized it. Things had purpose and meaning. All things in life.

Jonathan's behavior had been strange on a few occasions, like when he'd insisted on wearing his jacket the night his bare chest would've been shown to Starfleet Medical.

_Jacket?_

Something else fixated in her mind and suddenly she interrupted Shran with alarm. "Jonathan, did you wear a jacket yesterday?"

"Yes."

"Which one?"

"My brown one."

"Was it the one you left accidentally at my house?"

She ignored Shran's delighted face.

"Yes," Jon said.

A streak of panic crossed her mind. "Tell me when you wore your coat."

"What do you mean?"

"Tell me, did you wear your coat yesterday?"

"I don't know. I left it in the shuttlecraft during the day. When I got home, I took it in with me and hug it over a chair in my living room."

"Did you bring it into your bedroom at some point?"

"Why are you asking?"

"Did you bring it into your bedroom at some point?"

"Yes. I took it in and hung it on the doorknob of my bedroom. I've been forgetful lately, I wanted to be sure I remember to wear it. It's chilly these days."

"Did you bring it here tonight?"

"Yes," he said. "Why?"

"I think it has a listening device, possibly a camera."

Before either could voice additional concern, Shran waved a hand in the air. "The signal I'm using is Andorian. I'm sure is strong enough to jam anything."

Archer went to the coat rack and pulled his coat from its hanger. Taking it back to the room the three silently gestured to each other, despite Shran's assurance, to scan for it. The Andorian brought back a small scanner and nodded as he waved it over the jacket. A small metal device shone blue under the scanner, beneath a button at the lapel of Archer's collar. The three sat back in awe and wonder.

Finally after more hand signals were made, Shran stalked back from the kitchen with a knife and heeding Jonathan's frown for only a moment, began to cut away at the fabric surrounding the lapel to free the camera. When they did, T'Pol examined it. The disc was exactly like the ones Tallah had found underneath the tables at Shran's party, and the Vulcan could only hypothesize these small devices were both camera and bug.

The Andorian's antennae peered down at the device and then he looked up at his two friends.

"Arali technology. But, it's hard to see the writing."

Archer squinted and then shook his head. "It's too small."

The scanner whizzed over it, capturing the tiny scribbles made on it and then Shran curled his finger until the two followed him up the stairs into a smoky office. Once the data filled the screen on a terminal located on his desk, he zoomed in.

T'Pol's mouth went slack. The ancient scribbles – the archaic language of a dialect of Vulcan that wasn't spoken, one that she'd practiced as a child - looked much like the writing on the disc.

_Romulan? s_he thought.

"The writing looks familiar," Archer said more to himself than anyone.

The Vulcan glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. Although he admitted, without seeing her query, he had no idea why.

"Do you think we were successful in jamming the device?" she asked.

Shran gave a frown. "I think so."

"What should we do?" Archer asked.

"Can we … turn it off?" Shran asked.

"I don't know," T'Pol said. Out of habit, she asked her former captain a question. "Would you like me to attempt it?"

"What do we have to lose?" he asked.

When the doorbell chimed, Shran left the two to stare over the small equipment. As she began to work over the device.

"I found one on my cloak … perhaps that's the camera they used for the video shown of us. But, how could they add one without our knowledge?"

He shrugged. "We take off our coats in our offices before entering the Council."

"Yes."

"Section 31 has gathered information from your office before."

Her eyes went wide. "You don't think Section 31 is behind this?"

"No. It just makes me wonder. Maybe it's easier than it seems to plant bugs."

"Whatever the case, much information has been compromised," she said. Immediately her thoughts raced to conversations in her office with T'Pau and others.

"I agree."

Shran barged into the room with Gral. The Tellarite was wearing something that looked like satin pajamas instead of the robes he usually wore as if they'd disturbed him from his slumber.

"Why wasn't I invited to dinner?" asked the Tellarite.

"I like these people," Shran said, pointing to Archer and T'Pol.

Gral's grunted in amusement. "I brought the equipment you asked me to, Shran."

"We have a late night party going on, Gral. It's called Get the Arali back. Want to stay?"

Gral stroked his beard. "I've always been in favor of celebrations."

TBC

A/N: Find out next time what happens when T'Pol meets the people who sent her the communication.


	19. Chapter 19

Fog settled over the moorings on a dark night with low-powered street lamps barely slicing through. A light mist hung in the air, damp like any fall night in San Francisco. Boat moans, the splashing of water and the caw of seagulls mingled intermittently into the night air and echoed throughout the quiet dock.

It was 1 a.m. and T'Pol waited patiently, looking over her shoulder from time-to-time, waiting for something or someone to appear. A chill traveled up her spine; this climate wasn't suited for a desert woman. Just as she was on the verge of turning around, she heard a voice – hushed – address her.

"I knew you'd come."

The voice was synthesized, masking a perpetrator, and the result was a tinny deep voice that covered up the noises of the harbor. Glancing from left to right, all she could see was shadow though she could feel more of them around her. Darkness blanketed the area, cast from the structures that hung nearby and onto the electronic voice to mask his or her identity.

She addressed the voice. "It appears you were correct."

"Are you alone?"

"Do you see anyone with me?"

"I scanned the area," another man replied. "She has no one with her."

"What do you know about the gem?" the voice asked.

"Precious little."

"Did he tell you what it was?"

"A gem."

"What else?"

She was quiet.

"What else!" the voice demanded.

She remained silent, her lips flattened so that she could feel them against her teeth.

"We told you what we would do if you refused."

From out of the dim lamplight, she spied two creatures – one was shaded and there was another ….

"T'Pol, it's a trap. Don't say anything," Archer said.

"Jonathan?"

Barely visible, Jonathan – his hands tied in front of him with strong rope – was pushed forward so his visage became clear. The man had blood clinging to his lip and a bruise adorning his cheek. Unthinking, she took a step toward him when the man with the synthetic voice walked into the light, his face covered to protect his identity, warned her immediately.

"Stay where you are," the creature said. "We'd hate to kill him."

She stood still.

The other darkened creatures moved into the light – there were six Arali surrounding her.

"How did they take you?" she asked.

"On my way home from Shran's. They were waiting for me …."

"Are you all right?" she asked him.

Archer said, looking at his captors, "Well, the company's kinda dull." The insult met with a quick phase pistol butt delivered to his gut and the man doubled over.

"Don't harm him," T'Pol said.

"Tell us what we want to know," asked the marked creature.

"I know very little."

"We know Vulcans can't lie. Tell us about the gem … the crystal."

As one of them raised their fist about to deliver it to her former captain, the Vulcan spoke.

"Please, don't harm him. Shran told me very little."

The creature seethed. "That idiot must've told you more. After all, you're friends."

A clanging rattled, as if a trash can lid was knocked from the can it covered, and the creatures became nervous. One, staying within the shadows, went to investigate the problem behind a nearby barrel and saw nothing.

"Shran and I friends? The man is responsible for the death of a close friend of mine."

"You went to his house," the creature said.

"Jonathan was there."

Archer shook his head. "T'Pol, don't say anything to them."

She said, "Your friendship with Shran is not my concern. You are." Focusing on the leader, she eyed him. "What guarantee do I have that you will release him once I tell you?"

"Tell us what we want to know first."

"Don't tell them, T'Pol," Jon said.

She ignored the plea. "It's powerful."

The masked man nodded. "Yes. Powerful enough that the Andorian government would steal it … and use it against its enemies. We know the Andorians are beginning to use it on their ships."

"There is very little the crystal can't do. It can destroy an entire starship if used properly."

"What?" The man sounded like he salivated at the idea.

"If the gem is used properly, it can destroy an entire starship, possibly more."

"How can we use it?"

"Release Jonathan."

The man with the mask shook his head, threateningly. "How do we use it?"

Reaching into her cloak, she noticed suddenly weapons were drawn pointing straight at her head. Holding her position, she flicked and eyebrow and permitted an Arali to search her robe's sleeve (her destination) until he pulled out a PADD. Nudging her head in the direction of her notes, she said a few words.

"I anticipated you would ask this question. The information is there."

"T'Pol," Archer whispered with disappointment.

She ignored his protest and said, "Secrets, military ones, are difficult to keep. The Arali would find out eventually. It's only logical to provide them this."

An Arali, narrowing his eyes looked at the information. "Her notes seem authentic. She's included a scan of the gem."

"Why did you give this to us?" asked the masked man.

"You said there was something I want; your analysis was correct. He's my friend."

"I thought he would make you capitulate." She could see the man's smile, even in the dark. "_We _manipulated the data disc."

"Oh?" she asked.

"But, it wasn't difficult to see there was something between you."

She remained quiet.

The man with the hidden identity pushed Archer forward toward her and she clasped her arms around him to keep him from falling.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

"Yeah," Jon whispered.

As she helped him try to remove the binding around his wrists, she heard the man reviewing the PADD.

"This is a fraud! The compound doesn't match to our information."

Grabbing Archer's arm, she hit the deck and waited for a streak of blue light to come from behind a tool shed, one conveniently located less than twenty clicks away, hitting the leader squarely in the chest. He went down quickly as the other Arali fired back.

"I'll get him back," said one of the Arali, pointing to Archer.

Unfortunately, the admiral lowered his body to the ground too slowly. A harpoon-like weapon speared his shoulder and long metal tether connected to it, and the Arali at the controls pressed a few buttons.

"Break free," she said.

It was before electric shocks were delivered and his body convulsed as the man yelled at the pain it successfully delivered. Arms and legs flung in all directions, his chest heaved, and he eventually landed face-first onto the deck where he continued the movement.

The phaser fight continued, but neither Shran nor Gral could take the mark of the man who was torturing Archer. It called for a quick decision, and possibly a foolhardy one. With all her Vulcan might, T'Pol grabbed at the tether from Archer's back and ripped it out leaving blood, skin and flesh in its wake. It knocked the breath out of her, and she realized that because of the shock, she was vulnerable to attack.

Just as the torturer came next to her, Shran felled him with a single shot. The man hit the ground and his phase pistol was knocked out of his hand. The Vulcan clutched at her heart – the typical slow, steady rhythm was now sputtering irregularly.

Phase rifle shots, from Shran's gun, volleyed off and took down two men who were closing in on her. One of the Arali managed to fire off a round, a beam of light that nearly caught the Andorian's antennae. Gral, less successful with his phase pistol, managed to miss most of his targets. And although he wasn't cowardly, he hid behind a large barrel with a shaky aim.

While the battle continued, T'Pol noticed the masked man began running down the dock. With the last remaining strength she had left, T'Pol grabbed a phase pistol that had fallen near her and shot her target. The man immediately toppled to the ground.

Sinking onto the pier, she felt her eyes begin to close and her heart flutter at a maddening pace, almost as though it would burst from her chest. Within moments, she wasn't sure how many, she heard two voices fade into the ether.

"Great grendal. They used a disruptor," Shran whispered. "Hold on, Vulcan."

"How's Archer?" Gral asked.

Shran said, "Get Phlox!"

----

T'Pol opened her eyes slowly and noticed she was in her own apartment. When her eyes gained focus, she realized she was lying next to Archer on her bed. Her former captain was curled on his side with his bare back to her. A bandage stuck there, covering the shoulder that sustained damage, and his breathing was long and low. As she was about to get up, she realized how tired she was. Hazy, in a fog, she heard a voice.

"Easy," Phlox said. "You're going to feel a little woozy. I gave you each an Elijian eel."

"Eel?" At that very moment, she felt something in her arm and saw it wiggle under her skin. Whatever it was, she indeed felt relaxed, almost sedated.

"Relaxation."

"Jonathan?" she asked.

"He has one too, although he was shocked a little longer. Because he's human, it'll take a little time for him to recover," he said.

She felt sore, the kind she hadn't experienced in some time. Reaching a lazy hand to push aside her hair, she looked over at Archer.

"Don't worry, he's fine. He's lucky you pulled the tether from him. A couple more seconds and he'd be in the hospital … or worse."

"His shoulder?" she asked.

"Underneath his dressing is a Saran suckerfish," he said. "It'll cauterize the wound and regenerate some of his cells. The wound itself wasn't that serious."

A little relieved she settled back when she noticed someone hovering behind the doctor.

"You didn't follow the script," Shran accused. "Still, I'm glad to see you and the Pink Skin made it out alive. I can't believe he volunteered to allow them to capture him. I have to say that man has guts. He would've made a great Andorian."

She wasn't sure _she'd _call it guts. When the admiral had surfaced the idea, she'd remembered thinking it was risky – too risky. In the end, though, they'd all determined it would allow for a deception and give Reed's men enough time to arrive. What they hadn't counted on was that the Arali would discover the treachery so early. T'Pol hadn't been given much time to complete a fake scan and information about the gem. Everyone assumed the Arali would read the first bit and then save the rest of it for later.

They also hadn't counted on the device used on Archer – the disruptor.

Shran said, "At least this brought you to share a bed." His eyebrows waggled.

A frown nearly worked its way to her face and the blue man smiled. "Ah, don't get upset. You did well."

A little pig-like man wormed his way through. "Good you're up! Did this blue demon tell you I shot a man?"

Shran wrapped his arm around his little friend. "He did."

Breaking up the gaiety, T'Pol asked, "What do we know about the Arali?"

"Captain Reed's men arrived soon after you lost consciousness. But, we saw the man who held Archer," Gral said.

She waited.

"An Earthling."

An eyebrow rose.

"Archer's aide," Shran said. "Captain Reed thinks he's with Terra Prime."

_That_ surprised her.

"Why would a Xenophobic Earthling join forces with aliens?" she asked.

"To encourage aliens to leave his planet," Gral said, with a snort.

There was a strange logic in it, but she found it disconcerting all the same. Vulcan, Andoria, Denobula … and now Earth. Each planet seemed to have been infiltrated by Romulans, Arali and Orions. They'd been hatching a plan for some time, it told her. And she found it unsettling that everything came to fruition now. War certainly was on the horizon, she just hoped it could be staved off longer.

"I think Stan was the yarpog who planted the device on Archer's jacket that implicated you," Shran said.

"I believe you are correct," she said.

Gral stroked his beard. "At least it means we should get a confession about how he falsified the video of you and Archer. I'll work on that and distribute it to the other ambassadors as soon as possible."

"She should get her rest," Phlox said.

Shran and Gral nodded. As they were about out the door, Shran asked a question. "So, do Vulcans refrain from lying?"

"Everything I said tonight was true." She _avoided _a lie even now. Vulcans did lie, she knew personally, though they abhorred doing so.

"The gem could destroy a starship?" he asked.

"I'm sure there's a way to overload the crystal, like our plasma, to destroy a ship."

"What you said about Andorians?" he asked.

"I disliked your people at one point. However, now I would consider you a friend."

The Andorian grinned. "I see."

"I said she needs her rest," Phlox said with more authority.

"We heard you, Doctor. You did well, my friend," he said to her. "I'll check on you later."

Gral grunted. "I'd like to as well."

She nodded, despite thinking she didn't need "checking on." With that the blue man and the little pig left. On the way out, and as Phlox looked into a bag he'd brought with his medical equipment she heard the men talk.

"Why didn't you invite me to your dinner?" Gral asked, a little hurt.

"Jhamel and I are trying to set those two up. It's cozier just the four of us and Tallah."

"I could've brought my wife."

"You two would be arguing all night long."

"Of course we would. I care about her."

Snapping her attention into focus, Phlox spoke to her as Shran and Gral's voice faded into the background.

"Did you ever think you'd hear him call you a friend?" the doctor asked.

"No. Nor did I ever suspect he would be mine."

Fiddling with a hypo and providing it to Archer's neck he checked his vital signs with a satisfied sigh.

He retrieved the instrument in his hand and then pointed to Jonathan. "I hope you don't mind taking the two of you here. It seemed easier to care for you together."

She didn't answer.

"I can move him to the pillows in the living room if it would make you more comfortable?"

"No. There's nothing wrong with friends sharing this space together."

Slightly confused, he nodded his head – almost as if he had no idea what she was talking about – and turned the light off before exiting. T'Pol stared up at the ceiling. The curtains hid most of the light from the city, only the moon – which was occasionally covered by thick clouds – shone though. It was large and full with a slight yellow glow.

The man beside her stirred suddenly.

"Where--?" he asked. His voice sounded groggy and hoarse.

"In my apartment. Actually in my bed."

"Huh?"

"You were hit by a disruptor and Phlox took both of us to my apartment."

"Oh." He tried to lean up and fell helplessly back. "The last thing I remember …. Did we catch the Arali?"

"Yes. The man holding you hostage was … Stan."

"Stan? Neville's aide - Stan?"

"Yes."

"Why?" Horror filled his face. "He's just a kid …."

"According to Shran and Gral, the young man was involved in … Terra Prime."

He sucked in a deep breath. "I thought that group was long gone."

"Yes. At least, I was hopeful it was."

Rolling over onto his hurt shoulder to face her, he furrowed his brow and ducked his head until he captured her gaze. "Are you all right, T'Pol?"

She gave a hesitant sigh. "It has been many years since I heard that name. I am …."

"You didn't answer my question."

Unintentionally, she nodded.

He said, "It must be difficult."

Terra Prime – the word and its existence – seemed to have brought up painful memories she thought were long buried … emotions that she'd sorted out sorted and dealt with. And yet, she wondered now why there was a knot in her stomach as she thought about this organization and a dead child from nearly seven years ago.

It also made her think of Trip.

There were other thoughts that hovered in her brain, like how such a detestable organization could've resurfaced to help the Romulans, Orions and Arali. It meant that nearly every planet in the Federation was vulnerable to attack and deceit.

The woman stared into the eyes of her former commander.

She said, "We're at the brink of war. I have an aide going to Romulus who may be in jeopardy because of Stan and Terra Prime. The Federation has collapsed and nearly every planet in the Federation has suffered treachery. My reputation has been hurt and my government is displeased with me because of my association with you. And thinking of Terra Prime has … uncovered memories about …."

The word was a simple one, Elizabeth, and yet she could not bring herself to say it.

At her speechlessness, his hand cupped her face – showing concern and care.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

"Emotions," she said. The word hissed against her teeth. "I haven't had time to meditate recently, otherwise, I might be better equipped to handle them."

"I think you're entitled."

"Entitled?"

Instead of lowering his hand, he stroked her cheek with his thumb hand and gave her a slight smile. "I meant no one could blame you … how you feel. I certainly don't."

The two gazed at each other in the darkened room – moonlight filling in some of his features, including a glint in his eyes. She took a silent breath and then scooted unconsciously away from his grip and from him.

"Dr. Phlox indicated we should get rest," she said.

As he snuggled his head into the pillow, he asked about her comfort. "You okay with me being here?"

It was clear to her he meant her bed.

"Phlox said it was easy to care for both of us in the same area."

"You know what I mean."

"You indicated you thought of me as only a friend, correct?"

"That's what I said--"

"Then I see no issue."

"T'Pol--"

"Sleep. We can talk later."

He sighed and she closed her eyes to think about Elizabeth, Trip and Jonathan before sleep overcame her.

----

Shran arrived late in the afternoon and let himself in with a security code that Phlox provided him. Dusk was breaking over the city and the living room warmed to the pink hue, reflecting off the sandy colored walls. Candles were scattered around the rooms as if to woe a man, rather than seek meditation … at least that was Shran's thought. The Andorian, who'd been too worried last night/this morning to take a good look around, decided the Vulcan's home looked distinctly feminine.

Rummaging through her home, he noticed many interesting details – she had wine, though she didn't drink, freshly bought meat in her refrigerator though she was vegan and pillows on her floor … enough for two people. He also noticed there was a tuxedo jacket, tie and shirt neatly folded on the table. A grin spilled over his face and made his antennae stand erect.

_So I was right about the video and the Pink Skin's reaction! _

Putting the clothes back on the table, he then wandered over to the bedroom. The door was closed. Putting a blue hand on his thinning white hair, he scratched his head at the dilemma.

_Should I knock first?_

Listening to the door, he heard heavy breathing – with a light snore coming from the human, as if both were asleep.

Shrugging, he decided if they had mated at least he'd see the evidence for himself. He opened the door, unabashedly, and frowned. T'Pol was on her back with her eyes closed and her lips barely open in the same attire she wore last night. The Pink Skin was dressed, except for his shirt, and was curled up beside her. Neither were touching, sharing a pillow nor even underneath the covers together. They weren't snuggling or even grinning sheepishly in their sleep.

_Maybe what the Pink Skin said about being friends was true._

As he was about to reach over and wake the Vulcan, as Phlox had instructed him to do before they all left last night, he looked over on her desk. There was a picture there near her terminal encased in a silver frame. Walking to it, he picked it up in his blue hands and inspected it. It wasn't a picture of Tucker or even one of Vulcan. It was picture of Enterprise's senior officers in the engine room together – one that Starfleet must've taken. It was before they went into the Expanse, although he wondered if they'd already known about Earth because their faces seemed grim and determined. Archer leaned on the railing like a ferhal that was ready to pounce, flanked by his two best friends: Tucker sat beside him and T'Pol nestled on the other.

Something made him open the frame and examine it in more detail. Reed and Sato were standing next to each other, her grabbing onto the railing and his arms crossed as if nothing would stop him. About to return it to the frame it dropped from his hands and ended up face down on the floor.

"Derak," he cursed. Collecting it, he noticed some timid scribbles on the back. "Don't know if Vulcans keep pictures, but thought you might like this – Jonathan Archer."

The date on it indicated he sent it less than a year ago. Shran turned it over in his hand again and stared at it. The Pink Skin's hair was tinged with gray these days and seeing how Trip had been dead for some time, it couldn't have been taken recently.

He looked at the two on the bed and rubbed an antenna with his free hand and remembered the planning session from last night, before T'Pol met the Arali on the pier.

_Gral, T'Pol, Archer and he had argued about each plan that surfaced. _

_Gral's idea was for Starfleet to immediately seize the culprits as the four of them continued to drink Andorian ale and eat whatever leftovers Jhamel had. The little man argued that it would be the easiest thing to do and would afford them time to chitchat. He seemed unwilling to think about what if Malcolm's terminal was bugged … which the Vulcan and the human thought was a strong possibility. Shran simply didn't like it because it meant he wouldn't be in on the action._

_Before anyone else could speak, the Andorian let a smile cross his lips. "I have a plan."_

_The Andorian relayed his brilliant scheme involving two phase rifles strapped to his back while holding two large phase pistols. As soon as the Arali showed themselves, he'd come in guns blazing to take down as many as those ridge-faced terrorists as he could. He'd give the call of an Andorian ice bird so that T'Pol could duck down and Gral could stay out of the way. Archer, he reasoned, should probably have at least one phase pistol to help in case the firefight got out of control. After relaying his idea, he looked on the faces of his friends who seemed too squeamish to acknowledge the sheer genius of his plan; the green drained out of the Vulcan's cheeks and the Pink Skin shook his head, hiding a smile._

"_Maybe not this time," Archer said._

_Gral snickered._

_T'Pol wanted to meet the Arali and put herself in danger while the rest of them waited for the right moment to incapacitate the blackmailers. Shran and Gral both agreed it had merit, but the Pink Skin spoke out loudly against that plan right away. _

"_No," he said. _

"_Why?" she asked._

"_You'll be a sitting duck," he said. _

"_That may be, but it seems the most logical thing to do."_

"_I disagree. So, let's discuss another alternative."_

"_As I recall, you are no longer my commanding officer," she said._

_The Pink Skin obviously didn't like that come back, and he hung his head. "No, I'm not. But, I'm your friend and I don't want to see you needlessly put yourself at risk."_

"_What would you propose?"_

"_The message they sent you made it seem like they'd trade the information for … me. I think they're going to look for me."_

_Shran spoke up. "Don't you think that's being a bit of a megalomaniac?"_

_Archer's eyes narrowed. "T'Pol's shown us the message. 'Something you want' is the title. They included pictures of me. I think they want to use me to make sure T'Pol tells them everything."_

_T'Pol's eyebrow twitched. "You could be correct. I have wondered about that title myself."_

_Shran kept his mouth clamped shut. He personally believed they were onto those two just like he was, but didn't think bringing up the information now would sway Archer or the Vulcan._

"_I think we should all follow T'Pol's plan with one minor adjustment," Archer said. "I think I should be the bait."_

_Now the Vulcan disagreed. "I don't believe that to be wise."_

"_I don't think we have much of a choice."_

_Shran said, "If they are busy capturing you, I can contact your friend Reed without tipping them off."_

_Gral said, "We can tell him to meet us slightly after 1 a.m."_

_Archer nodded. "We need to let them think their plan is going to work."_

"_Jonathan," T'Pol said._

_He smiled. "I'll be fine."_

_She didn't seem convinced._

_He added, "I think after all my years on Enterprise, I'm used to being kidnapped."_

_Shran gave a chuckle. He liked a man who could laugh in the face of danger, one of the qualities he admired in the Pink Skin. _

_The Vulcan didn't seem amused, and with hesitation continued with the plan._

Shran looked over at the two. Archer was wrong about what he said, on Andoria men and women _could _be friends, but they would probably mate. The urge to procreate was strong in his species – so irresistible that teenage Andorians would do so. Into adulthood, hopping in and out of bed with a friend was always considered natural and normal. There were never expectations of more, although with good friends who were good mating partners, it could lead to more … especially during the Gathering Season before the big snowstorms. It was always good to have a mate, one whose company you enjoyed for more than just mating, during the long cold nights.

From what he knew about humans and their mating habits, their rituals seemed backwards. People fell in love _before _having sex. Shran shook his head.

_That's just weird! Everything is easier when there's mating _first_, it helps weed out the people you shouldn't fall in love with._

The Andorian knew very little about Vulcan mating rituals other than they had a cycle to do the deed. Snidely, he thought Vulcans needed a _reason _to do everything, even mate.

Putting the picture back in its frame and setting it back on the desk, he tiptoed over to the two. Restraining the urge to put Archer's hand over her middle, just so he could see their expressions, he leaned over T'Pol and touched her arm.

Her eyes creaked open and then stared with confusion at him.

"Sorry," he said. "I need to see if your eel has dissolved."

Looking at her arm, she said, "I presume it has." She stirred and looked over at Archer. "What time is it?"

"Around five."

"Five … a.m.?"

"Nope. It's nearly night." Without the same gentleness he provided to the Vulcan, his hand nudged Archer. "Wake up. I have to check your arm and suckerfish."

"Huh?" Archer asked, sleepily.

"Arm and suckerfish."

The Andorian peeled the bandage away and noticed the little creature had managed do its work quickly. Although the pierced skin looked aggravated, it also seemed like it was better than he would've expected. Gruffly he checked the admiral's arm – no trace of the eel.

"Everything looks fine," Shran said. "You can go back to sleep."

Without as much as a word, Archer closed his eyes and began to give a light snore. T'Pol pushed herself from the bed.

"Phlox said Archer would be tired, but _this_? Human bodies must be weak."

"Perhaps he would be more comfortable in his own bed," she said.

"Nah. He looks comfortable here."

The Vulcan, without debating, crossed her arms and walked out of the bedroom into the kitchen. Shran followed at her heel.

"Would you like some tea?" she asked.

He gave a slow nod. Although he wasn't crazy about the substance, he wanted a chance to talk with the Vulcan.

"I wanted to let you know Ambassador Kator seemed very sorry at the embarrassment he caused you," Shran said.

"You provided him the evidence?" she asked.

"Gral sent it to all the ambassadors. They're still evaluating the information about Xemax. Seems like proving Stan's treachery would've sped that process along."

She was silent.

"I … Reed tried to contact you. He indicated you might be upset that Terra Prime was involved."

"He told you?" she asked.

Shran's antennae drooped. "He said enough."

"I believed that Earth had progressed."

"Terra Prime seems like a small group of dissenters. There are a few on Andoria who would rather the war with the Vulcans never had ended."

"To be in league with the Romulans, the Orions and Arali though?"

"They must _really _hate us," he said.

She poured some tea for both of them, and they sat down at her table.

The Andorian pointed to Archer's clothing lying there. "At least you'll have a chance to give these back to him."

"Hmmmm."

"You want my advice?" Shran asked.

"About what?"

"Commander Tucker was a long time ago, and so was Terra Prime."

"The organization hasn't changed its tactics. They again used a relationship to further their cause, although in this case they misconstrued it."

"No, that's not what I mean. There's an Andorian saying – the past is the past."

Quizzically, she widened her eyes.

"It's a phrase that means the past is gone and focusing on it won't help."

"I thought Andorians believed in revenge and vengeance. Those activities seem focused on past events."

He scowled. "Forgetting the past … it's how I moved on when Talas died."

"Are you concerned I am _worried_ about the past?"

"Yeah." Before she could speak, he waved his hand before her. "And don't give me that derak about Vulcans and emotions. You and I both know _you're _different."

"I'm not … worried. However, there are many things I would've done differently."

"With Tucker or with Terra Prime?"

"Perhaps both."

"You've should let these things go. Move on. You're a different Vulcan now."

The Andorian took a swig of the dark material in the cup and twitched at the taste – bitter and not to his liking.

"The Pink Skin doesn't like to talk about his feelings."

The Vulcan's eyebrows furrowed as if she understood why Shran was going down this particular path.

T'Pol said, "There is a trait, one that my species holds above all others: loyalty. The bond of friendship in many cases is more important and gratifying than that of a spouse. My friendship with Jonathan is deep and satisfying."

"Well, sure. But, you're a Vulcan."

"I am."

"What I'm trying to say is I think the Pink Skin has feelings for you."

"He does. We're friends."

Shran sighed to himself. _Can't be subtle with a Vulcan._

"Well, I'm just letting you know, I think he wants to mate with you."

That made her put her tea down.

"Why do you believe he wants to mate with me?" she asked.

"Because Earth men don't have deep and satisfying bonds of friendship with women, unless they're sleeping with them."

"What makes you say that?"

"Reed told me."

"He told you?"

"I asked if he had any close friendships with women, like Archer has with you, and he said 'no.'"

The Vulcan almost gave a frown.

"You know what else he said?" Shran said, "He used to drop by Sato's office and school every day and they had dinner on a regular basis. Dinner and frequent dropping by -- that's apparently what the term _falling in love _means."

"I believe the humans view of love as more than merely meals and visits."

Shran shook his head. "I asked if Reed would've stopped by all those times if he hadn't loved her, and he said 'no.'"

"Oh?"

"That's how he _knew_. In fact the human seemed to wonder if he hadn't somehow harbored feelings for Sato for longer."

She remained quiet.

Shran said, "Comforting each other, dropping by, touching …."

The woman seemed to be taking the information in.

"Humans show their love by mating. So … it stands to reason he wants to mate with you."

As if working the information out for herself, she spoke. "When he awakened, this morning, he touched my cheek. Caressed it."

He blue man grinned nearly from antenna to antenna.

"He almost …."

"Yes?" he asked, leaning in.

At his glee, she reiterated what she'd stated earlier. "Shran, I meant what I said about feeling only friendship for him. Vulcans don't feel love."

The Andorian's antennae fell slightly. "I would've thought after all these years maybe there was something …."

"No."

"Well, then it's unfortunate for Archer."

Her brow furrowed. "It is."

The Andorian stood and then pointed to his cup. "Thanks for the tea. Let me know if you need anything."

Rather than get up she nodded absent-mindedly.

Before reaching the door, Shran called out to her. "Gral and I are meeting at the Council tomorrow afternoon. Even if the Federation isn't going to do something together, we figure we can attempt it ourselves."

"You'd like me to attend?"

"I would."

"I'll be there."

"Good," he said. "Ask the Pink Skin, too."

"Of course."

"Maybe between now and then we can try to convince a few more to attend as well."

He placed his hand on the doorknob and opened when he heard from T'Pol again.

"I heard from my aide," she said.

"The one going to Romulus?"

"Yes, he sent a communication: all was well."

The Andorian nodded. "I'm glad to hear it, but I wonder for how long."

"As do I."

With that, Shran walked out the door.

TBC

A/N: More questions, more answers.


	20. Chapter 20

A/N: Dennis, I've been making historical references. I'll try to give you a recap of what we've had so far.

There's a lot of information from Journey to Babel, TOS. In the episode, the crew learns an Andorian aide is a spy. There are key races in Journey to Babel who seem like they founded the Federation: the Andorians, Tellarites, Vulcans and humans. And some of the other races in the background are the basis for some of the characters.

In keeping with Balance of Terror, TOS, a few Vulcans know the secret that Romulans and Vulcans are related, but none of them know what they look like. They believe the Romulans who have infiltrated Vulcan have been surgically altered. (And it stands to reason, most of the other spies are altered.) T'Pau indicated there were subtle differences between Vulcans and Romulans – something that Crusher noted in TNG.

Soong, in prison, was next to Tamor, and everyone thought he was insane because he talked about making androids who looked human. Hopefully that's a nice tie in to Data's creator.

The Council has broken up so that it truly becomes the Federation. Romulans (hint, hint) use disruptors; you've already seen one. It's also been suggested that the Romulans brought the war to Earth, putting them with Terra Prime seem like it might solve that problem.

Dilithium crystals. We don't see them in Enterprise, but we do in TOS. Tying the gem to what Shran stole in TATV seems like a better death for Trip and also explains where the technology came from.

There will be other things in the future. Look for a Captain Stiles (who we know plays a part) and other "historic" characters in future chapters – like an important Vulcan. It would be disappointing if I mentioned him; it'd be more fun to see him pop up.

Is there something you're expecting to see that's not covered or something you wish you could see?

All, thanks for your reviews.

----

It was late before Archer awoke. As he stretched out, he felt like someone slipped him a mickey; his bones were weary, his muscles hurt and his head was pounding. Groggy, he lay with his eyes open wondering what day it was, what time it was and where he was.

Things clarified slowly as if the haze took some time to wade through.

Staring at the ceiling of a darkened room, he started remembering everything – being electrocuted by some sort of weapon, staying in T'Pol's bed and speaking with her about Terra Prime and the child created through stolen DNA belonging to her and Trip ….

Wading through the recollections, a voice become clear – he realized T'Pol was talking quietly to a terminal.

"They received that information today," she said. "Gral sent it."

"Good." The other voice was definitely T'Pau – Vulcan, regal, and young.

"I heard from Staron. He indicated everything was going as expected."

"Have you heard more?"

"No."

"Prime Minister Pelletier contacted me to thank Vulcan for our assistance in revealing a member of Terra Prime."

T'Pol was silent.

"I understand Archer was with you?" T'Pau asked.

"Yes."

"That is _not_ what we agreed to."

"I know. However, it seemed logical to include him. Without the admiral's assistance, the member wouldn't have been captured."

The women were silent and Archer leaned up just enough to see them stare at each other, waiting for one to break. Eventually T'Pau spoke.

"I see. Although you have apparently cleared your name, I want you to be cautious of how you spend your time with him."

"Yes, minister."

"Live long and prosper."

"Peace and long life."

T'Pol turned off the terminal in front of her and let her shoulders sag.

"Can't be all bad," Archer said.

It startled the Vulcan and she whipped her head over to him.

"You're awake," she said. "How much did you overhear?"

"A little about Gral giving the ambassadors I presume Stan's confession, information about Staron and a warning to keep away from me."

T'Pol nodded and sat on the edge of her bed.

"Shran stopped by. Do you remember?" she asked.

He winced, barely recalling the Andorian asking to see his arm and suckerfish. "Yeah."

"He and Gral would like to meet with us tomorrow, if you feel up for it."

He nodded. "I think it's a valiant effort to continue to conduct business as if there's a Council."

"Agreed. If war should be declared it seems several race – Federation or no - should agree together. The Romulans are a … powerful race."

His brain tingled for a second and he recalled a thought, one that flashed through his mind only a couple of days ago.

"Vulcans and Romulans are connected," he said.

"What?"

"Vulcans and Romulans. They have some sort of connection, don't they?"

"How so?"

He sighed. "I know you won't believe me, but I _know_ that Vulcans and Romulans have a connection, I just …. I can't …. It's like I can't remember what it is."

"Information from Surak's katra?" she asked, almost sarcastically.

"I guess." Staring at her, he noticed her eyes averted his. "Do you know something?"

"About a _connection_?" she asked.

"Yeah."

"No."

Her gaze slowly met his and for an instant he knew she was lying.

_Why would she lie? _

And yet the look, a defiant gaze that crumbled a little under inspection, told him straightaway she was fibbing. Dismissing the thought, he stretched out.

"Would you like anything to drink or eat?" she asked.

"No," he said. His hand inadvertently went to rub his temples.

"I had tea when I awakened. It seemed to help _my_ headache."

"Well, then if it's not any trouble …."

She walked off and Archer followed slowly behind her, noticing his legs were stiff and his shoulder smarted. When they got to her kitchen, he pulled a cup from her cupboard – knowing exactly where the mugs were located - and then sat down at the table.

"You slept well?" she asked.

"Too well," he replied. "What time is it?"

"Near midnight."

Nodding, he accepted the tea as T'Pol slipped into the seat across from him. Silence broke out as T'Pol stared into her tea, as if thinking.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"Jonathan, I wanted to talk with you about something," T'Pol said.

"Oh?"

"Yes. I think we should pick up from our earlier conversation."

"Which one?"

"Perhaps we should start with a question I asked at Shran's house."

He shrugged, still clueless. "All right."

"How do you feel about me?"

The question surprised him. "I thought I answered you."

"Did you?"

"Yes."

"Then, tell me again."

He furrowed his brow. "I feel friendship."

"Friendship only?"

"Yes."

"I believe you feel more."

"More? Have you been talking with Shran?" he asked. Chuckling, he noticed the serious expression on her face and the smile slid from his face immediately.

"I have, but this doesn't have anything to do with him," she said.

"You're a friend," he said. When she didn't respond, he reiterated the statement. "Come on, you're a friend."

"Last night, you indicated you had something to tell me, and it seemed--," she said.

"I don't remember."

"Jonathan, you caressed my cheek."

"So?" With her eyebrow suspended in midair, he answered her. "I care about you, T'Pol."

"Care?"

"As a friend." Ducking his head to meet her gaze, he shook his head. "What's with you?"

"When you touched my cheek …. I _felt_ your emotions."

"And …?"

Lowering her voice she continued, leaning in as if to soften the blow. "I could feel your _longing_."

"Longing?" He guffawed.

"Yes."

"No." When he could see she was serious, he said it again with more conviction. "No."

"Your friendship is important to me."

"Me, too." Confused, he sipped at his tea thinking the discussion was over.

She narrowed her eyes which held a tinge of sadness to them. "Perhaps we should see each other less frequently."

"You got it all wrong."

"Unfortunately, I know that is not the case."

Becoming less amused and more irate, he addressed her comment. "What's your problem? I told you I feel only friendship for you."

"You said that." Softly, she added something. "But, I _know_ that's not true."

He got a little defensive. "You're one to talk about the truth."

"What does that mean?" she asked.

"Romulans and Vulcans …."

"You're changing the subject."

"Because you know I'm right," he said.

"I believe I stated my thoughts on that matter."

"Yes you did, but it's not true."

"And you know because you have factual evidence?"

"Surak's katra may be more factual than your ability to … _sense _my feelings," he replied.

He could tell she didn't agree.

T'Pol said, "I believe your defensive posturing only reaffirms what I felt last night." She leaned over almost as if to hold his hand, but restrained from reaching her grip the extra few centimeters.

He shook his head, terribly perplexed.

"I bring this up because I do not want to jeopardize our friendship."

He frowned. "You're jeopardizing our friendship now." Rubbing his temples again – soothing his headache and hoping to calm down, he spoke again. "Look, we're both probably tired and--"

"I mean what I say. Limiting our time together, at least for a few days or weeks, may help you work through your feelings so that our friendship can continue without romantic notions hindering it."

"There's nothing to work through!"

"Why are you being so stubborn?"

"Why are you!"

She watched him coolly.

"T'Pol, last night I wanted to comfort a friend. I didn't feel longing. I felt a little sad and worried. I know how you must've felt and wonder if this whole charade isn't because you've had time to think about Elizabeth and Trip."

The ghost-like frown crawled across her face and her eyes turned black. "That is not true."

Something made him push out of his chair and begin to pace. "Well, then explain to me why you're suddenly brow beating me--"

"I'm not brow beating."

"—about my feelings. Ones I don't have!"

"I am concerned you will become hurt and disappointed."

"Well, you're just pissing me off now."

She didn't have anything to add.

"So, that's it?"

"I have stated everything I want to on this matter, yes."

"I haven't. I think this is absurd."

"You've made that clear. I disagree."

"What's the use. You haven't even listened to what I've said."

"On the contrary, I have listened to everything you've said, including the intention behind it." She spoke over his non-verbal protest. "The remnants of Surak's katra should tell you that Vulcans are touch telepaths; we can occasionally identify strong emotions from those we touch. I _know_ what I felt from you; I've encountered that particular emotion before."

Archer scratched his head and grumbled under his breath. As he was about to leave she caught his arm.

T'Pol whispered, "Because I care for you, I wanted you to know my thoughts. I will _never_ be able to feel more than friendship toward you."

Breaking her grip, he said, "I've never asked for anything more."

"I am concerned you will."

"You're penalizing me for a feeling you claim I have that I don't feel and for something you think _may_ manifest itself to _possibly_ harm our friendship."

She didn't respond.

"I don't see the _logic_ in that." He leaned into her. "I think whatever happened between you and Trip left _you_ confused, maybe more than him."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, maybe while we're not seeing each other, you'll have a little time to figure that out."

"You continue to raise your voice," she said.

"I'm frustrated, mad and hurt. I don't understand where this came from or why you keep insisting how I feel! My head hurts. I feel a little sore. And … oh, forget it."

He stalked off to the bedroom as she followed behind him.

"Not to mention what?" When he didn't answer her, she asked again. "What?"

"Trip may've liked playing games with you, but I don't."

That raised her ire. "I am not playing a game with you. I was hoping discussion would prevent an argument."

"Oh, it's a game all right." Buttoning his shirt, he spoke with a little venom. "Let's be clear – you're punishing me for whatever happened between you and Trip. I don't like it. And I sure as hell dislike being told I have feelings for you … when I don't!"

"You have always been stubborn."

"Yeah, well so have you," he said through gnashed teeth.

He slipped on his shoes and grabbed his tux shirt, blazer and tie. With the pile in his hands he made a beeline for the door. Stepping across the threshold, he slammed the door behind him as a picture nearby trembled threatening to fall. Angry, fists balled and face red, he headed back to his home a block away while carrying his tuxedo jacket, shirt and tie.

It gave him a chance to vent, at least in his head. Stomping as he made his way home.

_Stubborn!_

Occasionally Archer was angered past the point of being able to talk. It was that kind of fury that existed now, welling within him like a barroom brawl. If he'd stayed, perhaps the battle between he and T'Pol would've worsened; he'd almost brought up how she was able to put her trellium addiction behind her, but not whatever happened between her and Trip.

It seemed unfair, mightily so, that in a way he was banned from seeing her. The very idea made him angry, as if she was assigning feelings and emotions that didn't exist. And yet, out of pure spite he was determined not to see her or care about it. In fact, there was a small part of him that wanted her to suffer.

_Friendship? What a crock._

As he punched the codes to his home and opened the door, he saw a figure in the middle of his darkened living room.

"Who's there?" he asked. A light snapped on and Gral was near Porthos' bowls.

"Sorry, it's me," Gral said. "I'm feeding your hog."

"Dog."

"Shran said you probably wouldn't be back until the morning."

"It's already late. Why are you here?" His voice sounded a little tense, and he had trouble covering it up.

"Tellarites need only three hours of sleep at night. We like to take naps. You didn't answer my question – why are you back early?"

Putting his things down, with a little grumble to his voice, he answered the question. "I cut my stay short."

"Oh. Feeling better then?" the Tellarite said with a grunt.

"Something that like."

"Your _dog's_ been well cared for. Fed and watered. By the way, have you tasted his food? It's quite tasty."

"What?"

"Your dog's food. It's tasty."

That deflected some of the anger. "You ate it?"

"I wanted to see what it was like. Your dog seemed to enjoy it – such a succulent creature – I decided I would try."

Archer's eyes narrowed. "Thanks for watching him."

"They have an animal on my planet that looks like him – soft and meaty. It's a delicacy called taagar. The animals you eat – chickens, cows and," he gulped "pigs don't taste like they have vigor or life."

"We breed animals to eat," Archer said.

He dropped the dog food in his hand. "Heartless! No wonder your food is bland. Eating a creature, one that has lived a full life, makes it more delectable."

"You capture _all_ your food?"

"Of course! The taagar is a tiny beast that roams the forests of Tellar. Every spring Tellarites leave their mudholes to search for it. After every man captures one, he heads back to his home and his wives cut off the velvety ears for--"

Archer looked at his Beagle and frowned. "I think maybe you can save that story for another time."

He grunted. "We're meeting tomorrow afternoon. You'll be able to be there, yes?"

Archer nodded. "Yes."

"How is Skinny?" Gral asked.

"T'Pol's fine," he said with a clipped tone.

The pig stroked his beard. "You have a disagreement with her?"

"Why do you ask?"

He gave a small squeal of satisfaction. "My wife and I. I remember our first argument. She was all of 23 years and her snout hadn't even turned up. I knew from the moment I saw her it was meant to be, but I didn't have a sufficient argument for her. To provoke her, I argued why men were better than women."

Archer raised his brows.

Gral continued. "We argued for _hours_. After both of us were too hoarse to continue, she took me back to her mudhole and we snuggled next to each other until the sun rose and our voices had returned."

"Sounds … romantic?"

"Ah, we like to relive that argument. It brings out the passion in us."

Now it was starting to head in a path Archer didn't really want to think about.

"We sometimes do so while enjoying a long, steamy mud bath."

"Okay," Archer said, waving his hands in front of him.

"You have that kind of argument with her?" Gral asked.

"No."

Gral settled onto Archer's couch, without invitation, and encouraged him to continue. "Skinny is a Vulcan, but she's got a fire in her belly."

"We hardly ever disagree," he said mostly to himself.

"I'm sorry to hear that." Gral kicked his feet, which couldn't quite reach the floor. "If it's any consolation, I think she cares for you anyway, just as you care for her."

Archer rubbed his temples, which still throbbed. Instead of following Gral to the sofa, he looked in his refrigerator and pulled out a beer. When he heard a cough across the room, he decided to offer the little man one.

"I would like one, yes," Gral said.

Making his way back to the living room, Archer folded himself on the sofa, provided Gral a bottle and then drank.

"Tell me your problems, human."

"I don't--"

"Oh, stop being so stubborn, Archer."

Jon frowned. He didn't like being called it twice in one day, not to mention twice in one hour.

"I'm not," he said, a little agitation in his voice.

"You know how you feel about her. Why not just admit it to her?"

He swallowed more of his beer. "I don't feel anything except friendship."

"What? Is it complicated for Earthlings to admit feelings?"

Archer shook his head; his headache was worsening.

"The blond man? Your engineer?" Gral asked.

"He has nothing to do with it."

"I see. I think she's over him." The little man brought up something. "Sometimes in a particularly passionate argument, opponents will use Fargot's Method of Attack."

Archer jerked his head back "Huh?"

"Fargot was one of Tellars best debaters. He had a method, a strategy, to throw an opponent off guard: to use unrelated personal history against the opponent. It got the opponent off track. He also used absurdity to get the other to capitulate."

"Shouldn't the objective be to present the most compelling argument instead of sling personal attacks or throw out _non sequitur_s?"

"In debate?"

Archer nodded.

"_That_ is a peculiar notion. Every argument is compelling. It's those who can argue the longest that win."

Jon didn't respond.

Chugging in one gulp, Gral managed to finish his beer. "Well, whatever you decide about what to do with Skinny, I hope it works out."

Archer stared on, shocked at how he swigged his beer. Patting his rotund tummy, Gral grunted.

"I should probably head home. Martog is fixing dinner."

"It's past midnight."

"Yes. We eat at 1 a.m. every night."

Archer's eyes went wide.

"You don't eat five meals a day?"

The admiral smiled. "Three if I'm lucky."

"Humans don't know how to live." Waving his long fingers, he exited the door. When the Tellarite left, Archer thought the company was a nice distraction. Sitting in front of the television he decided to check the scores of some of his sporting teams.

"Up, Porthos."

The dog obeyed his command and leaped into his lap as Archer stewed on the information.

---

The next day, Shran arrived at the building of the Federation early. He had a few things to catch up on before Gral, T'Pol and Archer arrived. The moment he logged into his terminal he heard a sudden sound.

"Blue!"

Shran looked around.

"Over here!"

Shran turned his head over his shoulder and saw the Tellarite.

"What?" he asked.

"Didn't think you'd be here early."

Shran shrugged. "Jhamel took Tallah to school early – something called a: field trip."

Gral snorted.

"What are you doing here?" Shran asked.

"My wife has decided to take up something called aerobics. The caterwauling she does during it is enough to …. It is difficult to withstand."

Shran's antennae poked up. "Aerobics?"

"It involves moving about to obnoxious music. If you want my advice you won't introduce Jhamel to the practice."

"Believe me, we're having a hard enough time figuring out what to do with the toiletries here. Are Earthmen so hairy they need to shave every day?"

"Seen Archer's chest?"

Andorian flinched. "They're like that all over?"

The Tellarite nodded. "Look up pictures of apes. They apparently descended from those animals."

The two continued to talk until Shran realized it was already eleven and that they had some actual work to do until then. As they were about to break up and go their separate ways, Shran caught T'Pol saw down the corridor.

The Andorian pointed his blue hand in her direction, hoping to draw attention to her, and Gral eventually intercepted.

"Skinny?" Gral asked,

She stopped. "Yes?"

"You're here early," Gral said.

"I wanted to review various documents before we meet."

"Did you get a chance to contact the Xindi ambassador?" Shran asked, walking to the door.

"I did, but she indicated she'd prefer to wait for the evidence on Xemax. Perhaps Ambassador Archer would have more sway with her."

_Ambassador Archer?_ Shran thought. As the blue man's mouth was about to open, Gral narrowed his eyes and shook his head slightly, indicating he shouldn't question her further. The Andorian obliged, but reluctantly.

"See you later?" Shran asked.

"Of course."

After she strolled away, Shran raised both eyebrows and antennae. "Grendal. Does the Pink Skin know what he's in for?"

"I meant to tell you, I talked with Archer last night. He came home while I was feeding his delicious looking animal."

"Wait … Phlox said he'd be at her place until this morning."

"They had a fight," Gral said. "He went home early."

"A fight? The Pink Skin should never engage a Vulcan! The woman has twice his strength and could kick his--"

"No, an argument. Though I would think it was a _positive sign_."

Shran shook his head. "Humans like to avoid conflict and … don't even ask about Vulcans."

Gral stroked his beard. "I would think the Vulcans enjoyed a good argument. I think the best interspecies debate I've ever seen was between Skorak and Denig." He chuckled. "Denig outlasted the Vulcan in the end. Went on for five days."

Shran's antennae leaned forward. "Gral, there aren't enough people on the Council for the Vulcan and Pink Skin to be in a personal argument. We _can't _allow this to effect what's left."

Gral nodded. "I doubt Skinny would allow it to become personal, although it's hard to tell with Archer."

Shran said, "Oh, he'll be as agitated as a yarpog on a fle-met."

"I hope not."

---

Shran and Gral got to the Council room early and waited, almost with baited breath for the other two in their once cozy foursome to enter. T'Pol, being a Vulcan, was early and seated herself with a brief greeting. Professional and dignified, she waited patiently without remark, looking over a PADD as if she were checking her notes.

As they all sat in absolute silence and watched the hands of the clock tick away, closer to the 1 p.m. mark, only two notches – two seconds – away, Archer walked through the door.

Sitting across from T'Pol, his usual place, he scooted in. "Good afternoon."

Shran and Gral both scanned from left to right, glancing at the two, and then looked at their laps. Somewhat timidly, more so than ever before, the Tellarite spoke up.

"Is it just us?"

"I contacted a few ambassadors; they indicated they were waiting for the results on Xemax," Archer said.

"Demvar wouldn't come," Shran said. "And I thought I had sway with Coridan – obviously not as much as I once did."

T'Pol said, "Sera refrained from contacting me, and I believed the two of us to have a good relationship. Perhaps it is their governments …."

"The Xindi ambassador wouldn't talk with me either," Archer said. "I think maybe T'Pol is right."

Gral sighed. "Well at least there are _four_ of us," he said.

The little pig's eyes inadvertently went from Archer to T'Pol, both seemed to be the very model of decorum, so he decided to continue.

"Earth, Andoria and Denobula have all been compromised. Skinny said she heard from her aide."

T'Pol said, "I have. Staron indicated all was well, but that was a few days ago. Have any of you heard from yours?"

Shran and Gral were quiet when Archer spoke up.

"Prime Minister Pelletier indicated Neville contacted him this yesterday evening. The note was short."

"Well?" Shran asked.

The admiral pulled out a PADD and read it. "Two days away. Duvall is antsy. Everyone on edge. Under communication silence."

Archer looked up at Shran. "The message was sent two days ago. It took two to arrive; Neville used subspace communications."

Shran sucked in a sharp breath as the Tellarites eyes went wide.

"Then, they must be there," T'Pol said.

Archer agreed. "Yes."

Gral said, "We should hear from them any day about their success."

"Or failure," Shran added.

Gral grunted. "Has Captain Reed provided any more information about the Arali we helped capture?"

Shran was on point for this. "Nothing, other than threatening our peace negotiations."

"What about Stan?" Archer asked.

"He's not budging on information about Terra Prime, and Reed thinks they've gone underground again."

"Neville selected Stan, didn't he?" Gral asked.

Archer said, "Aides are assigned for the most part. And … I don't think he has anything to do with it."

"Nathan and Stan have _one_ thing in common," T'Pol said, quietly.

The human straightened. "I don't think that's it."

The two used some strange method of non-verbal communication: her eyebrows flicked and eventually gave a slow nod.

T'Pol spoke up. "May I trust this information will be kept from your governments?"

Gral said, "What is it first?"

Archer said, "It's embarrassing to Earth and could ruin the reputation of a previous political candidate … one that is important to this Council."

The Andorian's antennae wiggled. "What do we care about Earth politics?"

Archer sighed. "Nathan Samuels was a member of Terra Prime."

Both Shran and Gral dropped their jaws as T'Pol flattened her lips.

"I can see why you'd want to keep this a secret," Shran said. "It's not everyday you hear the man who helped set up a council of aliens was a xenophobe."

Archer said, "He joined in his youth. Samuels has changed since then."

"Is Malcolm contacting Mr. Samuels?" T'Pol asked.

Shran shook his head. "I don't know. He may've and not told me about this."

"I'll ask him later," Archer said.

"Any word on Xemax?" Gral asked.

Shran said, "Reed is still questioning her, and like the other Arali, she's not talking."

"It seems there's little for us to do," T'Pol said.

Shran disagreed. "We have one thing we should settle on before the end of this week. Discuss war."

The four got down to business and began working on it, should something happen to the Excelsior … or any of the governments move forward. They also began to work on something if everything succeeded.

---

A few days went by, and the four plotted and planned, writing down words and ultimatums as well as concessions. Among the negotiations, the Andorian, Tellarites, Vulcans and Terrans agreed to join war together – if one was attacked, they would all provide various military forces, weaponry, etc. for an undisclosed period of time.

The only one who felt uncomfortable discussing war was T'Pol. Although T'Pau agreed to allow her delegate speak of war, she was less convinced it was the only alternative. As Vulcans, they wanted to honor Surak's philosophy of peace; in a way it seemed premature to even discuss repercussions to the Orions, Arali and Romulans … even despite everything that happened. And yet, though her people were pacifists, they weren't fools, and the evidence mounted enough that the idea of war at least warranted some thought.

She was surprised by something else: despite arguing with Archer, he acted with professionalism. There were times, though, during their meetings when he held a lingering glance as if he wished to patch things up between them. But, he never said a word at least not to her before or after they adjourned from the Council … as if to purposefully distance himself from her. It disappointed her; she missed his friendship.

Archer, with the blessing of Prime Minister Pelletier, continued to meet with the Council. During every meeting he spent almost the entire day pacing as he listened to his friends speak and offered his opinion; the thought of sitting while planning for what he knew would be a long-fought battle unnerved him. Striding from one end of the room to the other, despite Shran's annoyance, actually settled his nervous energy and – he reasoned – helped his thinking process.

Each day before the three met, Archer intended to talk to T'Pol, but the day disappeared and he made his way back to his apartment. It made him a little sad; he missed her.

Gral scribed everything for the first day, but took his time arguing almost every point – something that by the end of the week drove Shran to take over the role of capturing the committee's thoughts.

The Tellarite's approach to the meeting was resolute. As if the Romulans had already committed the last atrocity he'd worked through his views and laid them out on the table: full scale war. He knew he'd have to sell it to the leader of his people, Tyr, but knew the man would eventually see the move as sage.

The little pig enjoyed coming into work and discussing the future of the Council. It also pleased him to continue to play the part of President, making final decisions and giving a counterpoint – despite Shran and Archer's irritation – to each argument.

Shran was less concerned about whether his government would agree, he'd already received full authority to communicate information from the General – the leader of his planet. He could've had that authority because he and the General were friends.

What was more tenuous was interacting with his friends.

For the Pink Skin and Vulcans part, the two exchanged frequent glances, communicated nonverbally, finished each other's sentences and the admiral even used a softer tone when speaking to her. They were professional and courteous to each other in the Council room, but said nothing to each other outside of it. The Andorian tried to reason with the Pink Skin, but the human grew cranky almost right away and told him to "butt out."

The other breaking point was Gral's insistence they debate every item, even the ones the pig agreed with. Politely, T'Pol would usually interrupt – just as Archer was about to tell the thing to pipe down and directly after Shran had barked at him to shut his snout.

---

Another two days passed when tensions rose to an all-time high between the four, putting them at odds with each other.

No one had yet to hear from any of the aides or any of the crew of the Excelsior. Xemax wasn't talking, the information about her had yet to be verified by the ambassadors, Stan kept silent and Reed was facing one dead end after another. Each of them waited on needles and pins to get any information - any; the suspense even perturbed T'Pol.

That wasn't the only thing she was annoyed at, although the Vulcan would never call it that. She knew Archer had pride, but he'd let the disagreement carry on for far too long. Although she'd hoped to approach him, he seemed hesitant and closed.

Not only that, his accusation about Trip had merit.

After long spells of meditation, she found herself coming back to his point. Although she hadn't reached any conclusions, she knew it was a subject that required more thorough investigation.

Archer convinced himself to stop the dispute he had with T'Pol from continuing to fester.

Shran was growing irritated at everyone: Gral's incessant arguing, Archer's pacing and T'Pol's logic. Although these people were his friends, being stuck in a room with them for nearly ten hours every day was driving him insane. In his mind, a former member of the Imperial Guard shouldn't have to continue to make concessions. Occasionally, he wanted to have his way.

The only one who was happy, enjoying the conflict, was Gral. Arguing every day, all day with his friends, made the job particularly enjoyable.

Tempers flared as the final details were discussed and debated to such finite minutia, that T'Pol had to raise her voice to suggest they take a break. When they left the room, Jhamel was waiting in the corridor – apparently no one realized it was already past noon.

With her were Tallah and a woman with dark red hair and blue eyes.

"I have your lunch," Jhamel said. Holding out what looked like a picnic basket, she smiled as Shran put an arm around her.

"I'm a lucky man," he smiled and told his friends.

Jhamel said, "I'd like you to meet Miranda. She's a teacher at Tallah's school."

It was the woman in the picture that Shran forced into Jon's hand while they were smoking cigars at the Andorian's house. Shran wondered if this wouldn't be the best way for them to talk and Archer immediately understood he'd be asked to go to lunch. Hoping to make a quick exit, he said a few parting words.

"Didn't have any trouble getting through security?" Shran asked.

Usually the process was tedious – running a scanner over each person until they were cleared. Although the lack of ambassadors made the hallways quiet, there were always cleaning people, associate staff members, receptionists and more who were around.

"No," Jhamel said, smiling.

"I have some work to do. It was nice meeting you," Archer said.

"Indeed. Enjoy your lunch," T'Pol said, turning to go back to her office.

Gral smiled, giving a snort.

The Tellarite, Vulcan and Earthling turned to leave when Archer heard his name called.

"Jon, I was hoping you could join us for lunch." Jhamel asked.

"Uhm, I was planning to go back to my office to--" Archer said.

"He's coming," Shran announced.

"Good," Jhamel said. The girls walked ahead and the Andorian caught his arm, pointing to the redhead in front of him.

"_That_ is a lovely woman." The Andorian pointed to the butt of the woman which swung from side to side. "She's already interested in you. It wouldn't kill you to have lunch with her. If there's no spark, then there's no spark. But, if there _is _…."

Archer sighed and in a moment of weakness allowed Shran to laugh triumphantly and pull his arm toward the women. When the men joined up with the rest of the party, everyone moved outside for the picnic despite the chilly fall day.

---

T'Pol watched them from her office below – which had an excellent view of the courtyard. The trees were beginning to lose their yellow, red and brown leaves as the wind shook them to the ground. Earthlings snuggling their coats to them, hurried in and out of buildings, hoping to keep from becoming cold. As a woman with a red jacket streamed across the yard, she spied something surprisingly: Shran, Jhamel, Tallah, Jonathan and Miranda all laying down a blanket on what she supposed was soggy ground to eat raw fish.

The sight made her turn from her window immediately.

_Andorians and humans are illogical creatures. _

Sitting at her desk, she stared at her computer and began opening files she'd sorted through before to see if there was any business she could conduct since she wasn't hungry. Besides, she thought, Gral would ask for a mid-afternoon meal anyway.

Her fingers tapped a few buttons and inadvertently, the message titled "Something you want" – the one that threatened to harm Archer – displayed. Glancing over the pictures, she looked over them with dispassionate interest, her eyes lingering on each.

Shran's words that it was unfortunate she could not return what she presumed were Archer's feelings were true. And looking on each one made her miss her friendship with the man. Seeing him drop food into his lap at the Chinese restaurant, hearing his purring laugh and discussing the day's events comforting.

She and Jonathan had been friends more than eleven years, and good friends for ten. They'd risked their lives for each other at every opportunity, even when it wasn't called for.

On Vulcan, friends were more treasured than Pon Farr mates; those who shared their bodies were often forgotten about. Some friends, she's learned through the Kir'Shara, melded to show closeness – to impart thoughts and memories. It left traces of a bond without feeling like the ever-present tingle of a bondmate.

A bondmate, the most hallowed of relationships on Vulcan, were between friends who'd shared their bodies for joining outside or during Pon Farr. A Vulcan's katra would cling to one who completed him and keep the tenuous relationship until a lifebond was struck, usually with the help of a Vulcan priest.

Thinking back to Trip, she hadn't taken that final step with him and eventually their bond faded over time into nothingness. It was a sad way to end that relationship, and pride – the one that prevented either she or Archer from talking now – kept each other from creating a lifebond or even re-initiating a bond at all. The two went back to friendship, one that they both found confounding and yet satisfying.

A yell snapped her attention away from her terminal and musings. Leaning back to merely glance out the window, she noticed Archer throwing Tallah into the air as she screamed with delight. From the scene below, Jhamel seemed a little nervous, but Shran sat back talking to Miranda.

It seemed like a family. Getting up from her desk, she stared out the window watching Shran's lips move.

T'Pol imagined the blue man to ask, with a smile, "The Pink Skin is a natural with children. Don't you think so, Miranda?"

Deciding to wait for everyone in the Council room, where she would be undisturbed, she made her way back through the halls. Just as she was about to enter the room, Gral touched her arm.

"Skinny, are you as excited to continue as I am? It's a pity we're almost finished."

An eyebrow perked.

The two entered the room and T'Pol realized it was too late to bow out and find a quieter spot.

"Shouldn't you be eating?" she asked.

"You forget Tellarites eat quickly. To let food get cold is a disgrace."

"Did you find anything from your aide?" she asked.

"No. The more time goes by the more concerned I grow."

"As do I."

"Not much we can do until then."

"We can always wait."

"That's something Vulcans are especially good at. Maybe they're too good. Sometimes action is necessary."

She looked over the Tellarites features and understood there was more meaning there. Without taking the bait, she merely accepted the information. Until the men returned, she would review information on her PADD.

Ignoring the Tellarites soft grunts, as he murmured information – almost practicing his debate – she read what was there. After an hour and a half, a blip crossed her screen; it was an urgent note demanding attention.

Tapping her fingers to access it, the words displayed were in the same ancient Vulcan she'd seen before. It was a message from Staron and the subject was grim: "All is lost."

"_We were approaching Romulus when we encountered one large ship, a dark green vessel like the ones ancient Vulcans used, to escort us. _

_As part of the protocols already arranged, we lowered our weapons as the Romulan ship had done. The moment we did, other Romulan ships appeared from nowhere – ships that did not register on scans. After firing on us, removing our ability to defend ourselves (weapons were taken offline), damaging various systems (the entire communications system, Sickbay equipment, transporters, nacelles) and already forfeiting many lives, they threatened to board the Excelsior and claim it for the Romulan Empire. _

_Admiral Duvall was determined not to let them obtain Starfleet technology. While Commander Stiles helped us board various escape pods, the captain of the vessel as well as the admiral acted on their plan. The admiral overloaded the ship's engine as the captain steered Excelsior toward two Romulan ships, destroying all three vessels._

_I am in an escape pod now. _

_Many of the ambassadors, some of the crew and Stiles are heading to a planet nearby, a name I am unfamiliar with that should sustain us. _

_The Romulans are already firing on many of the pods. I am concerned we will not make it._

_I am using priority channels to ensure it reaches you as quickly as possible. _

_Peace and long life._

Almost dropping the device from her hand, she stared up at Gral and her voice betrayed her anxiety, quivering. "I have news!"

"What is it?"

"The Excelsior has been destroyed."

"What?"

She repeated the words, not believing them herself. "The Excelsior was destroyed."

Gral pounded his fist on the table. "Get Shran and Archer. I'll alert Prime Minister Pelletier and Admiral Gardner."

T'Pol, holding the display in her hand, ran through corridors and past security until she reached the outside. Jhamel was already gathering the blankets and the participants collected the dishes and food. When Archer saw her, he immediately stopped and walked over to her.

"What's wrong?"

"The Excelsior," she whispered to him. "It was destroyed."

Archer stepped back a little at the force of the statement.

She said, "The Romulans attempted to capture the vessel and Duvall overloaded the engines."

"Is anyone left?" he asked, a little hoarse.

"Staron indicated the ambassadors and some crewmen were able to escape. But, it appears they don't have much time …. He said the Romulans have been firing on the pods."

Shran broke in on the moment. "It seems we have some immediate work to do."

Shran walked back to his family, rubbing antennae with his wife and daughter as Miranda waited. T'Pol noticed that Archer, about to head in, stopped and turned to the visitor. Straining her Vulcan hearing, she tried to discern what was being said.

"I'm sorry. I have to go."

She smiled. "I understand. Maybe we could get together some time?"

"Sure," he said, without committing to where or when.

The Vulcan noticed he extended a hand and she shook it before he walked away. The woman stared after him, a smile on her lips.

T'Pol ducked into her office and immediately contacted T'Pau. The Vulcan minister was brief and firm.

"Finish your work and allow me to read the declaration of war before we approve it. I want it completed tonight."

"Of course," T'Pol said.

"It is a dark day that Vulcan enters war. It against our people's way of life."

"Surak believed in self-defense."

"He did. Continue to report to me every three hours. I will convene the Vulcan High Command."

"I will. Live love and prosper."

"It is my hope we both do," T'Pau said before ending the transmission.

T'Pol watched the screen fade to black and noticed closed her eyes. The end of peace. When she opened her eyes, she noticed a figure hanging in the doorway of her office.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Yes. You?"

"I'm all right. Gardner is coming here tonight after he and the other admirals decide on a plan. Pelletier is ready to declare war."

"As is Vulcan."

He swallowed deeply. "I'm heading to the Council room."

She nodded and walked with him. As they passed through the hallways and into the room, they realized they were the only ones there. After a brief moment of silence, the admiral leaned on the desk. It signaled to T'Pol the man was finally ready to talk.

"I was unfair -- what I said about you and Trip," he said.

Glancing down she said, "Much of what you said was correct." Gazing up at him, she made a comment. "You seemed to have enjoyed yourself at lunch."

He shrugged. "It was all right."

Giving a quick look to the door and seeing it was still clear, Archer spoke carefully. "I've been thinking about what you said."

"You have?"

"Yeah. I … haven't wanted to talk with you because …. Emotions are kinda confusing sometimes."

She agreed silently.

"_Never_, T'Pol?" he asked.

"What?" she asked in return.

The moment she did, Shran entered the room. "Andoria is ready to declare war. It's a strange day when my planet accepts Vulcan intelligence. Shows you just how dire things are."

Gral returned, hearing the latest statement. "Tellar is ready as well."

As all four of them sat down, she noticed Archer's eyes stayed on her for a moment before shifting to the task at hand. There were things unsaid and she pondered his question to her until Shran sat at a terminal, typing the document.

"After we finish this, there's no turning back," the blue man said.

"Let's get started," Gral said.

A/N: Thanks for hanging in there this time. It's a long one, but it didn't make sense to break before. You'll see what I mean next chapter. If this one left you with less action than you'd like – my apologies. The next chapter will be action-packed! In fact, the next chapter is the reason I started this little fic. Needless to say the next chapter begins the war, and by the end of it, we'll enter into the next act.


	21. Chapter 21

A/N: Myaxle, don't give up on them yet! This chapter changes everything. I've really been looking forward to writing this chapter. I hope it comes across okay.

---

Most of the halls of the Federation were dark, lights dimmed every night at 8 p.m., and other than the occasional security guard or janitor, were silent. The offices, except for the Terran, Andorian, Vulcan and Tellarite, were black. And the only activity in the large pyramid shaped building was in its core – the Council room chamber.

The Council room was always moderately dim, striking a balance for all species' lighting requirements; though the humans found it difficult to see, Tellarite found the room unusually bright. And the chamber was moderately empty except four tired individuals at a rectangular table, directly in front of a blue flag with a symbol of laurels on it.

Each of them showed signs of fatigue in one way or another, the time being near midnight.

Shran's antennae were droopy, as if they had gone to sleep, and his eyes had deep bags under them – a dark blue. The man was also more submissive, lacking some of the fire and bravado that seemed to be his hallmark.

Gral's hair was askew and he was cranky. He'd neglected his mid-evening meal in favor of attempting to wrap up the discussion and put the finishing touches on the declaration.

T'Pol had taken off her outer robe, draping the sand-colored fabric over a chair next to her and displayed a rich-red inner robe, one that flowed from her. It made her seem almost as if she was in her nightgown.

Archer had finally given in to unbuttoning the top button of his shirt, showing a patch of hair, having taken off his jacket and tie long ago and found himself leaning back in his chair - slouching.

When they'd reached the last step, signing their names, T'Pol spoke up. Pointing to the paper document in front of them, something that was used for formal occasions, she made a suggestion.

"The Excelsior was a human vessel. You should go first, Jonathan."

"Without Staron's information we wouldn't have anything. Besides, I think Gral should sign as president."

With a slightly hoarse voice, Shran flipped his hand apathetically in the air. "Someone just sign the fratog thing."

Archer drew a deep breath, picked up a pen and then slowly put his name on it. After him, Gral signed his, then Shran and finally T'Pol. She took the document in her hand and commented about it with solemnity.

"This is a monumental day, a catastrophic one."

"General Krag indicated he would have troops at the ready tonight," Shran said. "He's been in contact with Admiral Gardner."

Archer nodded.

Gral said, "I heard Tellar will deploy tomorrow as well."

"As will Vulcan," T'Pol said.

They all grew quiet, and Gral bent his head. "At times like these Tellarites say a prayer."

Archer nodded. "So do we."

The four bowed their heads and each thought a few words to themselves on behalf of the universe, their races and what they'd just done. T'Pol used the time to meditate and reflect over the seriousness of the occasion, hoping for the best – and swiftest – outcome. Shran hoped that his planet and family would survive; although Andorians were no strangers to war having fought more than a few species at one time, he hoped for the least number of casualties and for the alliance with his friends to continue. Gral, a more religious man, said a few words to the deity of war, asking for help and guidance … and to protect his people as well as those at his table. Archer's was simple.

_God help us,_ he thought.

With that, the four divided to work out the finer details with their governments and answer questions about the declaration. War was minutes away.

Earth's leader was literally across the courtyard from where the Council was. Prime Minister Pelletier had decided to travel to meet with Admiral Gardner and the General Thompson, the man in charge of the entire military, to discuss a plan of action based on the declaration and agreement of shared troop deployment. General Krag's man, the Tellar's top military leader - Commandant Rog - and T'Pau's dispatch were all scheduled to arrive in the morning. It was bound to be a late night.

Archer walked the declaration and latest information about agreed upon troop deployment over to Gardner's office, handing it to his Pelletier. Starfleet was bustling with activity, more so than the day before Enterprise left for the Expanse. No doubt organizing search parties for the missing ambassadors is what kept everyone busy, not to mention impending war.

The Prime Minister put on his silver-framed glasses and looked over the document.

"It's going to take me a few minutes," he said. The document was more than 100 pages long.

"I can come back," Jon said.

The Prime Minister walked into a neighboring office that he was using as his makeshift one and sat down at a desk. Archer was about to leave, when he heard Matt.

"Doing a heck of a job."

Archer gave a sad smile. "Thanks."

Matt pointed to Jon's suit. "You wear one every day over there?"

"Yeah. Kinda my new uniform," Archer said, teasingly.

"Think I like the old one better." The admiral pointed to his splayed collar and continued. "Although this one looks like it breathes a little better."

"I miss the old one, too."

Matt asked, "Do you?"

"Of course. Temporary ambassador … I don't know if diplomacy is my strongest skill. I miss exploring. I miss space."

The admiral's eyes darkened. "I think you may get your chance to be back there."

Jon waited.

"I'm going to need someone to coordinate troops on the move. Someone who the Andorians, Tellarites and Vulcans will listen to … someone they respect."

Archer for some reason held back.

"I'd like you to there, Jon."

Silence.

"Don't tell me you've gone soft for politics?" Matt asked.

"No. Nothing like that. I just … it seems you're going to need someone right away."

"I'll need a man out there when we deploy a third of the troops."

"You'll need someone there in a few weeks."

"That seems likely, yes."

"I feel like I have unfinished business here," Archer said, reluctantly.

Matt frowned. "I've already talked with Pelletier about re-instating you. He agrees."

Archer didn't say anything.

"You knew your time as an ambassador was limited."

"I did. I … I just thought I'd have more time in the position."

"What's the unfinished business?" Matt asked.

Archer gave a sad smile. "It's personal, sir."

Matt nodded. "Well, seems like at least you have a few weeks."

Archer gave a slow nod and walked back to the Council room. By now, rumor had already spread and the line to get back into the Federation was longer. Ambassadors, like Sera, were piling into the building trying to figure out what happened.

When Jon finally got through, he went back to his office and shut the door.

---

T'Pol sent the data file to T'Pau and waited for a response. The time in the office was tense and as more people filed into the building, the commotion grew louder. As she stared at the terminal in front of her, she heard someone down the hall.

"T'Pol?" Sera asked.

The Vulcan perked and waited for the woman to sit down.

"This is truly unbelievable," the woman said.

"Is does seem that way," T'Pol said.

"Has T'Pau signed the declaration?" There was a pause, and then Sera clarified. "You don't have to tell me."

"She is in the process of signing it."

The Xindi ambassador gave a small frown. "I hope you understand why we needed proof about Xemax."

T'Pol flicked an eyebrow. "I understand."

"Though the primate and arboreal Xindi believe you and Archer, the other races need more. And the reptiles are the most suspicious of what you two say."

"I understand."

Sera heaved a sigh. "What do you do when you don't agree with your own government?"

"Usually obey their wishes." T'Pol leaned in. "We are representatives, not policy makers, sometimes at the whim of politics of our homeworld. Vulcan is no different. The Civil War your people endured, after fighting the humans … it is understandable why your people are hesitant."

"I suppose," she said. "It seems a shame we dishonor Degra's name."

"Degra was a good man," T'Pol said.

Sera smirked and nodded. "You'll let me know if there's anything I can do. In the meantime, I don't look forward to telling my people that the Vulcans, Andorians, Tellarites and Terrans have all agreed to war. I'm concerned they'll recall me, despite the fact we may've lost my aide. I doubt they'll go to war despite sending him on the Romulan peace mission."

"I think many ambassadors will face similar circumstances."

The Xindi nodded and then stood. "Thank you for your time. Good luck."

As she walked out, the Vulcan was touched, although she wouldn't use those words. The friendship she'd developed with Sera was one of mutual admiration as well as being two of the more outspoken women on the Council. Sera was wise and kind, and the Vulcan would find it regrettable if Xindi were to recall her.

_I think they will._

The Xindi's five species were barely communicating and their own council had recently formed again. Without Guardians, as her people called them, there was momentarily chaos which eventually gave way after a long struggle to peace.

Before she could continue musing, her terminal beeped. It was T'Pau.

"I have read the document. My signature is being sent now."

"Thank you, minister."

"I know this grieves you, as it does me."

"Grief is an emotion," T'Pol said. "But, I feel it."

"We are Vulcans, not automatons. I _feel_ it as well. We can at least rest assured we made a correct and logical decision."

T'Pol gravely nodded.

T'Pau continued. "There is nothing more you can do tonight. Perhaps you should sleep. Tomorrow will be cumbersome. Once the other ambassadors have communicated with their planets, additional negotiations will be needed."

"I met already with the Xindi ambassador. She believes her people will recall her."

"It is to be expected." T'Pau sat taller. "I have explained to Staron's relatives his situation."

"My thoughts are with his family."

"They know."

"Live long and prosper, Minister."

"Peace and long life."

When the screen faded, she felt herself almost frown. Her mind was weary, more tired than it had been in some time. Closing her eyes only for a moment, she thought back suddenly to what Archer said when they were alone in the Council room.

"_Never, T'Pol?"_

A knock interrupted her thoughts.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you," Shran said.

"I wasn't asleep."

"Your eyes were closed," he said. Instead of the typical banter, he was making a comment; he too looked tired and worn.

"I was meditating on something."

He nodded and then slunk into her chair. "General Krag signed it."

"As did Minister T'Pau."

"Tyr apparently did as well. Right away. Gral's been in his office letting all the ambassadors know the situation."

She thought it was more than rumor that drove everyone out at this time.

"Prime Minister Pelletier?" she asked.

"I haven't heard from Archer yet," Shran said. "I'm sure he will. Pink skins want one last chance to read over documents they've already reviewed several times."

"Minister T'Pau read the document again. I believe they would think it's being thorough."

He waved his hand in the air as if to dismiss thoroughness. "At any rate … I was about to head home and wanted to see if you needed a ride."

T'Pol raised both brows. "That is a generous offer." Looking around, she realized she'd left her outer robe in the Council room. "Do you mind if I retrieve something?"

"No," he said, walking behind her.

The bustle in the corridors was louder than expected. Ambassadors scrambled to their offices to communicate to their governments all the latest and no doubt they were getting additional information on whether to strike a deal with the four races that made up a lax Council, or whether to retract their ambassador.

As they finally slipped into the core of the building, T'Pol picked up her things, looking briefly at the tie and jacket left in Archer's chair. For a moment, she thought about picking it up, leaning forward.

Just as she did a beeping noise caught her attention. Turning her head, tilting, she noticed the noise increased.

"Do you hear that?" T'Pol asked.

The Andorian shrugged. "Hear what?"

"A noise. A beep."

"Beep?"

"Yes." Cueing in on the sound, she pointed to the table. "It appears to be coming from there."

Shran poked his head underneath the table and then looked up, his face pale.

"Run!" he said.

Standing there, shocked, she felt his hand clamp around hers as he sprinted for the door and cleared the room.

As they made it into the corridor, Shran shouted the order again to anyone in hearing distance. "There's a bomb, run for the exits!"

As the beep reached a fevered pitch – at least to her Vulcan ears – she felt him grab her into an alcove and knock her to the ground, his body covering hers, just as a shock wave boomed through the building. Smoke filled the corridors immediately and beams began to buckle and crack. As T'Pol looked at the ceiling, peeking around Shran's arm that had encircled her waste as if to protect her, a steel garter creaked and moaned and then broke free heading for them.

And then everything went black.

---

Disrupting Archer's thoughts, inklings he had been reflecting on for nearly a week, a communication blipped on his terminal.

The Prime Minister wiped his glasses. "I've looked it over, Jon. As a symbol that we mean business, I'd like you to take the declaration to the other ambassadors and thank them for their assistance."

"Yes, sir."

When the screen went black, Jon made his way out the door, past people milling about in the hall. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw T'Pol and Shran head back to the Council room. It was well past 1 a.m.

_It's been a long night._

And they would get longer. The idea of serving Starfleet again was exciting, but not serving as a military commander. His stint providing that kind of leadership in the Expanse had taken its toll on him. There were some nights, even to this day, that he broke out into a cold sweat thinking he was back there and that he had to strand someone other ship, nearly defenseless, or torture some other prisoner to save his planet.

It wasn't just the wish to avoid playing a military man that he disliked. He was right when he told Gardner about closing personal business … not that he thought that particular business would ever be closed.

Making his way nearly to the Starfleet HQ, Archer's musings came to a halt as his body was thrown forward by the impact of an explosion. Landing face-first on the ground, barely catching himself on his palms, he heard shards of glass shatter and solid construction materials – like steel and concrete – groan. Twisting his body, he looked behind him.

The pyramid-shaped building, the Federation, was ablaze, making the night-time almost as bright as day. Smoke, pillars of it, filled the sky blanketing the area and blotting out the moon and stars. Screams of terror and chaos rang through the courtyard from the building and from those who'd witnessed the catastrophe. Ashes floated down to the ground around him like snowflakes and a dread came over him that, despite feeling a little pain in his back, made him push himself to his feet.

_Oh my God!_

A bomb had gone off in the building.

A man shouted behind him. "Someone get help!"

Running toward the inferno, Archer saw more clearly – despite the haze – survivors, covered in soot, began to pour out of the building panicked. Some were dazed, walking as if they had no place to go – confused - and some ran as if sprinting from the catastrophe. Some were crying and some were screaming. There were a few who looked like an inferno themselves.

It was horrible.

And yet he closed in on it, staring in trepidation and disbelief. Quickly his brain started to race on how he could find his friends … find T'Pol.

_I could run into it. _

He shook his head. _Run into what? It's chaos? These people need help._

He and several other Samaritans gathered as close to the door as possible, Archer choosing the one nearest the Council room, helping the survivors until formal aid could arrive.

_I'm bound to see them come through these doors, _he thought_. T'Pol, Gral and Shran._

Fire shuttles, one after another, arrived and men and women scrambled out of the vehicles dressed in respirators with axes in their hands. They vanished into the blaze to look for those who couldn't make it to the door or out of it. Water crafts dumped cargos of water onto the fire, sending plumes of blackness into the air.

Paramedics and doctors emerged on the scene and formed makeshift triage centers – small tents with equipment for burn victims, smoke inhalation and a communication station to see which nearby hospital to send victims to.

Starfleet security, headed up by Captain Reed, showed up and immediately started questioning those in the vicinity for the details. They asked for an account and calmly looked for those who were uninjured from inside the building to recall the details.

As controlled chaos took over, the Samaritans, including Archer disbanded. One man Jon knew – a janitor named Fred Rogers – started walking away from the crowd. Because of the commotion and dire situation, neither had spoken until the admiral approached him.

"Thanks for your help," Archer said.

The two shook hands and then Fred wiped the sweat off his elderly brow. The man was obviously inside when it happened, but managed to escape with few injuries. He was definitely shaken up; the tale Fred recounted sent a chill in Archer's spine – the halls were teaming with people and when the bomb went off pandemonium set in. The blast tore a hole through the one of the hall ways covering people in debris. When a few tried to help them free, a fire roared down the hallways and smoke made it nearly impossible to breathe. They left more people than he'd wanted to back there in the blaze, and he confided his conscious would never forgive him.

Immediately Jon thought of his friends, and wondered whether they were underneath the rubble and ashes. He thought about T'Pol.

Archer clasped his shoulder. "You stuck around to help. Doesn't sound like someone who should have a guilty conscience to me."

Fred seemed to take little consolation with that.

With that, the two parted, Archer heading back in the direction of the fire. When he was stopped from entering by police. The admiral tried to reason with them he had experience in fires, which he didn't, but they didn't budge. He thought about sneaking through the line and going in there, but decided to check the outside first.

Climbing what was once the grass around the building, now a rocky terrain littered with chunks of concrete and piles of half-recognizable office furniture, he made his way to the first triage center, the one he supposed was handling victims from those closest to the Council room. Making his way closer, doctors – some from nearly every species – sorted patients and shouted orders. A few were constantly using communications devices with the firefighters in the building or medical personnel in other locations.

Scanning a tent full of burned bodies, he called the names of his friends hoping for an answer. The patients groaned and cried, but none responded to him. When he'd called a second time, a Vulcan doctor perked his head up and pointed to an emergency shuttle where a little pig-like creature was being placed on a stretcher and loaded into the back. It was Gral, and he was covered in a dark brown substance – blood.

After the doors swung closed, Archer stopped the driver.

"How is he?" Jon asked.

The man shook his head as if there wasn't enough time. "We need to rush him."

As the man stepped into the vehicle, Archer asked, "Where?"

"St. John's."

Without further ado, the shuttle took off.

_What about Shran and T'Pol?_

Moving on he found himself milling about from triage center to triage center calling T'Pol and Shran's name. When the second hour passed, he found his heart beginning to sink and noticed his voice grow hoarse. As he cupped his hand around his mouth and called into the burning embers, he noticed Jhamel at his side.

"Have you heard anything?" she asked. Her voice trembled and her eyes, blind though they were, had tears brimming in them.

"No," he whispered. Silently he berated himself for not contacting her. "How'd you­--?"

"I saw it on the news."

"I'm sorry, Jhamel." He put a hand through his hair, noticing it too was covered in ash and sweat. "I've been looking for them for a few hours. I didn't think --"

"It's all right." And then he saw her lip quiver and noticed her antennae were already drooping. "I'm not really sure what to do."

Instead of answering her, he drew the pregnant woman to his chest to hug her.

"You think they're dead," she said. Tears already cascaded down her cheeks.

"I don't know. Maybe Shran is arguing with a nurse in one of the centers right now."

Jhamel gave a smile, crying anyway. "You may be right."

"Is Tallah okay?" Archer asked, growing a little more solemn.

"She doesn't know. I didn't want to scare her." The woman paused. "I left her with Miranda."

"You want to walk with me? I was thinking about covering every medical station again." He pointed to a tent nearby that was filled with patients.

Jhamel looked down. "If we split up, maybe we'll find them sooner."

His eyes watched her, as if to ask whether she was up for that – especially as pregnant as she was, and she answered him.

"I … I want to find him, Jon."

Archer lips curled up in admiration. "Let's meet back here in an hour."

She nodded and took off in the opposite direction. Archer combed over the same area noticing the triage centers helped fewer people; instead they were now full of dead bodies, ones the firefighters had pulled from the building. Some of the bodies were charred beyond recognition.

Each center was the same, no response to the words he called and no one – doctors, firefighters or anyone else for that matter knew the whereabouts of T'Pol or Shran.

An hour passed and Jhamel and he met again. They decided to try once more, and then again, and then again. With each passing minute, Archer felt more panic, as if being a little destroyed with each tick of the clock. Before long, he and Jhamel had encircled the Federation building at least five times. Despite feeling exhausted, Archer – with a voice that could barely be heard – called out.

"T'Pol!"

Meeting Jhamel again at the main entrance, he was beginning to see defeat settle on her face. The sun was barely peeking over the horizon, a sure indication that hope was about to be extinguished.

_We've got to look one more time._

Jhamel sat weakly on the ground, staring at it. Her albino hands covered her face and her shoulders quivered.

She was crying.

His hand caressed over her white hair, almost like a father might to his child.

"Hey, we're not giving up," he said.

Grabbing at her belly, she cried harder.

Crouching down to her, he spoke softly to her. "One more time. Come on."

"All we've seen for the past hour are dead bodies." She blindly pointed toward the building, now blacked on the outside, cracked and with a few walls missing – at least that could be seen on the outside. "They couldn't have survived."

"Shran's survived worse," he said.

"They couldn't have survived. Someone would've found them by now."

"No. I'm sure--"

Jhamel spoke quietly to him. "Have you noticed that almost everyone has gone?"

The tents that once served as triage centers were mostly disassembled. There was one fire shuttle there, as if to finish paperwork and ensure the embers died out. A few paramedics hung around mostly tagging corpses. And the throngs of people watching, helping or looking for loved ones, thinned to only a handful of people, including them. The only people out in force was security.

"No," he said.

"I don't want it to be over, but it is," she said.

"No," he whispered again.

"It's over."

"No."

"It's over!" she said. "It's over. It's over."

Slumping to sit, clumsily falling against the grass, he stared at the building in front of him. Tucking Jhamel's head under his chin, he felt her tears against his shirt and her body shake.

And as he felt her tremble in his arms, he realized tears had trickled onto his own cheeks. Watchingthe pink hues of the night sky light up the darkness, he felt sorrow – a numbing kind.

Closing his eyes, he chided himself – for pride, for arrogance, for stubbornness and just plain stupidity. There'd been a window of opportunity, even if the feelings would _never_ be reciprocated, that had passed for her to know exactly how important she was to him. Now, she would never know. It caused him to grab at Jhamel a little tighter.

In the moment of his deepest despair, a voice, a tiny one as if yards away, asked out into dawn.

"Jhamel?"

His ears perked up. Opening his teary eyes, he saw two figures – one slumped against the other – limping toward them. It made him stand immediately, bringing the Aenar up with him in slight protest.

"Jhamel?" the figure asked again.

It was Shran.

And in a sprint, both Jhamel and Archer tore up to the two shadows. Even on approach the scene was terrible and yet promising. They were alive.

Shran was covered in blue blood and dust from debris, his leather clothing stained with both. Although his antennae made it out okay, Archer could tell his friend used sheer determination and will to pull himself from everything. In the Andorian's grasp, as if he was dragging her along, was a stunned Vulcan. She was bruised, a gash above her left eyebrow that had loosed some blood down the side of her face and she covered with dust and green and blue blood.

"Medic!" Archer shouted with the voice he had left.

And then Jhamel's threw her arms around her husband, weeping and laughing with joy while Shran unraveled his grip around T'Pol.

"I'm too arrogant to let death take me," Shran said, his voice weak. "I told him to wait until after my son is born."

Jhamel laughed and kissed her husband.

The Vulcan swayed a little and Archer took her in his arms. Feeling her breathe against him made him want to shout, sing and laugh all at once. He wanted to twirl her in his arms and thank God she was all right. But, instead of doing any of that, without thinking, he kissed the top of her head. Warmth tickled him when he did it.

_She's alive._

And then with pure glee, he kissed her temple, forehead, right cheek and then suddenly and gently her lips. He didn't know why he chose to do so, but placing his mouth on hers seemed like the right thing to do. She didn't return it, nor did she turn away from it.

Stroking the side of her face, he whispered to her.

"Are you okay?"

"Yes," she said quietly. It was obvious she was dazed.

Pulling T'Pol to his chest, he held her stroking her hair while he told her how worried he was, how Jhamel and he were starting to give up hope and how glad he was that she was okay.

Shran sat, as if his body couldn't stand any longer and Jhamel sat by his side. The doctor – a man in his early thirties - arrived and began to look over both of them, taking their blood pressure, listening to their heart and shining a light in their eyes.

T'Pol, almost robotically – as if still confused – conveyed the events to Archer.

_They heard a beep underneath the table and Shran had pulled her arm, forcing her out of the room and into an alcove, one that was reinforced with steel and concrete. _

_When the blast occurred, shaking the foundation and bringing some of the building down even despite the strength of the alcove, he covered her with his body, taking the brunt of the explosion. When she came to, she found it difficult to breathe. Both of them were covered in debris and she noticed Shran was bleeding heavily. Clawing at the rubble around her, she pushed through it and finally broke free. Shran awakened and she offered to help him out when he refused._

"_An Andorian walks away from disaster," he said._

_She was finding it difficult to hear and her balance was off, so Shran clutched her to him and the two walked to where they stood now._

The human doctor broke in. "We're going to need to take Ambassador Shran to the hospital."

Pointing to T'Pol, he said. "I'd like to see her tomorrow for follow up, but I think she should go home. She may've suffered some hearing loss, but other than some cuts and bruises, she's okay."

"She seems disoriented," Archer said. His hand worried over the hair near her temple.

"I think that's normal. Just keep her warm. Make an appointment with St. John's – that's where they're taking the victims."

Shran was about to grumble about the young man's medical advice, when Jhamel spoke up.

"Thank you, Doctor."

Archer exchanged a few words with Jhamel and promised to see Shran tomorrow and then turned to T'Pol.

"Let me take you home."

Jhamel and Shran boarded a shuttlecraft headed to the hospital and Archer wrapped his arm around T'Pol helping her to his craft.

---

T'Pol was a little dizzy and disoriented. Everything seemed surreal, even arriving at her apartment in the morning – with the sky turning from pink to a bright orange and then eventually to blue - with Archer tucked neatly to her side.

When they reached her apartment and he'd entered the code, he turned to her.

"Maybe you should get some sleep," he suggested.

Without either agreeing or declining, she felt him lead her there and he took off her shoes for her – or what was left of them.

"Do you want to change?" he asked.

She found herself nodding, and gave some instructions. "My night clothes are in the second drawer on the left."

He produced a pair of blue pajamas for her. "These okay?"

"Yes."

He was about to leave, when she heard herself call to him. "I will let you know when I have changed."

The moment he left the room and shut the door, she slipped out of her clothes and into the pajamas he'd gathered for her. Although she wanted to take a shower, she was too sleepy to actually do so.

"I have finished," she said. Crawling under the covers, she watched as he came back.

"You need water or anything to drink?" he asked.

"No."

"Good night," he said. As he was about to turn toward the door, she spoke to him.

"I would like you to stay here."

"I can do that." He was about to leave, returning to her living room.

"Jonathan?"

"Yeah?"

Smudged with ash, his white shirt was stained as was his cheek. His hair looked sweaty and she could see a day's growth of beard on his face. Dark circles hung under his eyes and his lip was slightly swollen. When he'd spoken to her, his voice was raspy barely able to whisper. The man, as he would say himself, looked like hell.

"Come here."

Almost mistrusting his own footing, he made his way slowly toward her and sat on the bed. Timidly, she told him something.

"Could you stay here? It would be comforting."

She was implying that she wanted him to stretch out next to her on her bed. Without asking for clarification, he lay down next to her, above the covers, and faced her.

"All right."

Blinking slowly, she watched his face. "Thank you."

With that, she felt a little more at ease and shut her eyes. A warm peaceful sleep came over her quickly and her thoughts faded into oblivion.

---

When she woke up, Archer was curled next to her reading a book. It looked like he'd washed his face, though his shirt was still dirty. His smell was mostly clean as if he'd taken a shower.

She stirred and immediately when she did, he put down the book.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

"Better," she said. Although there was still ringing in her ears, she felt less confused. She was still a little sleepy and her motions, including a small stretch and yawn mimicked that.

"Did you sleep?" she asked.

"For a while."

Closing her eyes again, she remembered the atrocity. Hearing people scream in agony asking for help. She'd blacked out before she could assist anyone, but their cries must've penetrated her unconscious mind. The moment she'd been able to open her eyes and claw at the debris, she thought about their pleas. She'd tried not to notice the charred bodies around her; the site was too gruesome for words. They piled near each other, looking for a way out of an inferno.

Distracting her thoughts, he whispered to her, his voice still hoarse. "You talked in your sleep."

"What did I say?"

"You called Shran's name, asking if he was okay."

"How is he?" she asked.

"I talked to Jhamel. He's doing fine. They found some internal bleeding, but think he should recover by the end of the week."

"He saved my life."

Archer gave her a lopsided smile.

"Gral?" she asked.

His face fell. "They have him in the ICU. He was badly injured."

With a tinge of emotion in her voice, she asked, "Will he live?"

"They don't know."

"Everyone else?"

Archer frowned. "Ambassador Sera was killed. The casualties have been reported at nearly 50 right now."

_Sera. That is most unfortunate._

Closing her eyes again, to think about her friend, she asked a question. "Any idea who did it?"

"Not yet. But, I have my suspicions."

So did she. "The Romulans."

"It stands to reason."

"War has been declared?"

"At apparently 5 a.m. this morning. Pelletier addressed Parliament. And the media carried T'Pau's speech to the Vulcan assembly on Earth."

T'Pol nodded.

His voice hushed. "They've already sent the first troops to Romulus."

_And so it begins._

She noticed his head nuzzle into the pillow and he gazed at her with concern. It was more than that; she'd seen that look before – it held hope, adoration and devotion.

Taking a finger, she glided it over his lips, particularly where his mouth was swollen. "You kissed me last night."

Moving his hand to intercept her fingers, he spoke. "I think we should have this conversation later when you're thinking more clearly."

"I want to have this conversation now." She contradicted. Looking at her hand in his, her eyes eventually met his to search them. "You kissed me."

"I was happy to see you," he said. "I was beginning to think you were dead."

She remembered tears on his cheeks and a grin over his face as he kissed her not just once, but many times over.

"Your mouth caressed my face.

"I--"

As if recalling, she told him almost with confusion. "My forehead, my temple and my cheek."

He blinked without agreeing or disagreeing.

"Your lips touched mine," she whispered.

"Yes." His breathing had grown a little erratic.

"You feel more than friendship for me."

"I think we should wait to finish this."

She disagreed. "Tell me."

Removing his hand from hers, his fingers brushed a lock of hair from her face. "I'm in love with you, T'Pol."

She closed her eyes to understand the information and think on its consequences. A week ago, she'd decided he must feel something deep, but never imagined hearing those words from his mouth. The two had been friends, close ones, for years. He wasn't, as Trip was, a man of great sentiment, which made the impact of his statement more devastating.

Without warning, he kissed her and she was startled by the embrace. Instead of a soft touch to her lips, it was more demanding and held more yearning. His hand reached behind her head, dragging her into the embrace and his lips pressed firmly to hers. Because she was stunned, she didn't immediately break free from his grasp. He obviously misunderstood the reaction, thinking he had permission for more, he kissed her again.

She turned her lips away from his.

He said, "I'm sorry. I thought--"

"You don't have to apologize."

The moment became awkward and when his eyes met hers, she saw something in her eleven years she had not witnessed from him. Ever. Even when the circumstances warranted it. _Fear._

Because she cared about him, she held his hand to reassure him.

She asked, "Can we maintain a friendship without you wanting more?"

"I'll always want more." Staring down at their intertwined hands, he eventually looked her in the eye. "I think I've wanted more for a while."

"I don't want to lose you as a friend."

"You won't … it's just." Rolling onto his back and removing his hand from her grip he gave a sigh. He sat up. "I should probably go."

"You don't need to." She clarified. "I would like for you to stay."

"You seem like you're feeling better," he said.

"I am." She was still foggy headed, but her confusion had subsided considerably.

"Then I need to go."

This was precisely what she'd had concerns about. The pace of the past day had been excruciating and she preferred not to be alone. The person she wanted most to spend her time with was Jonathan.

"Stay," she said.

"I'm trying to make a graceful exit," he told her, quietly.

Actually, she'd already known that, but she didn't want him to exit at all. Sitting up, she watched him push himself from the bed and head for her bedroom door.

"Perhaps we can see Shran and Gral at the hospital and then have dinner together? It has been nearly a week since we have eaten at the Mandarin Cove."

He gave a slight frown. "I don't think so."

She almost gave a frown, too.

"When will I see you again?" she asked.

"Soon," he said. With that, he left.

The moment she heard the front door shut, she began weighing the situation. The great philosopher Stav indicated for every problem, there a multitude of solutions if you break the issue into small solvable chunks.

Issue: Archer wanted to possibly share a physical union and she wanted friendship.

_Is having a physical union with him to keep his friendship the answer?_

She wondered, quite logically, if it would satisfy everyone's needs: he would be involved in a relationship and she would be able to keep their friendship. It wouldn't be any great sacrifice. He was an attractive man, a friend, a good companion and being involved with him could satisfy Pon Farr when it arrived.

Her experience with human sexuality indicated that although humans needed to mate from time to time, it would not be the fierce animalistic kind Vulcans engaged in.

And, she was certain that her friend would be tender and sweet.

_That would not satisfy him._

Their emotions were frail and fragile things, and the Terrans had difficulty with them, especially love. Jonathan never struck her as particularly vulnerable, and yet she knew that if he found out her concession, that he would be devastated. He would feel betrayed. She certainly didn't want that.

_That would not satisfy me._

Jonathan deserved to have the care he gave to her returned by someone. Although human emotions were confusing, she understood love to be one of the greatest and most powerful of emotions. His demeanor, when he'd whispered those words to her, told her that he'd spoken them rarely to anyone.

And that hurt her a little, mostly because she knew it pained him. Her friend would suffer and brood for a period of time, and it bothered her to know she was the culprit. It's why she'd mentioned he should refrain from wanting romantic notions.

_Humans cannot simply deny an emotion. They explore them until that emotion is exhausted._

She'd been foolish to think he could will away his feelings. It was difficult for Vulcans, it was impossible for humans.

_Maybe the woman at the picnic would satisfy him?_

The woman obviously was enamored and by the look in Archer's eyes, he at least thought she was attractive.

_She would be better for him anyway._

Closing her eyes, she thought on the topic, searching for an answer. Maybe something would come to her later.

TBC

A/N: Fear not, intrepid reader.


	22. Chapter 22

A/N: ArafelSedai, hadn't seen on the site that Romulans were both. I thought it was like the Klingons (until Coto) where in the past (despite Trials and Tribblations), they had foreheads.

I liked it better when Romulans and Vulcans looked exactly alike, it was harder to tell the good guys from the bad … part of what made Balance of Terror so good! At any rate, thanks for your notes about that. I've been trying to match canon.

Also, glad you liked the line about playing games. I think both Trip and T'Pol enjoyed it … to a certain extent.

Dennis, nope, not getting a mood from any other author. Why? Does it seem that way? Any thoughts on whose mood? I can guarantee, this is something I've been cooking up since this fiction began. I knew this would be a major plot point.

---

War.

It was everywhere – on the terminal, on the lips of the Earthlings T'Pol passed on the street, whispered in coffee shops, argued at restaurants, explained by teachers and planned out by military men across Earth, Tellar, Vulcan and Andoria.

The feeling, the sensation of impending doom hung in the air like the fog over San Francisco, seeping into cracks and places yet unseen, impenetrable and thick.

_War._

The last time the humans went to war, they'd sent a single ship into an unknown region of space fully expecting that it wouldn't succeed and that their planet would be destroyed, annihilated by a weapon that had already killed more than 7 million people. Although Enterprise, the ship that protected the third planet in the Sol system, succeeded, there was still fear. Despite the Prime Minister's speech, asking his fellow Terrans to remain calm, the humans panicked.

War.

Indeed, T'Pol decided it was a _human_ reaction. The creatures she'd served with aboard Enterprise didn't always look at logic, weighing it carefully and deciding on the next rational step. And the people she worked with were, she'd decided, the best of humanity. Terrans when faced with the prospect, the very real one, they could be attacked acted with violence and terror. They defied reason.

War.

They cleaned out local stores, buying rations – food, water, generators and emergency kits. Delegates from Terran colonies traveled immediately to Earth, up in arms, demanding protection during the conflict. Reports indicated already many colonies had already sent children families back to Earth in haste, leaving homes abandoned and some of the colony's governments in chaos.

War.

Angry people passing by, who clearly didn't understand what was at stake, complained about the government, loudly and belligerently. Some of the people even thought Terra Prime was being falsely accused. Those who didn't suspected the organization was accused, they committed treason, but for the right reasons.

War.

It wasn't just the Terrans, T'Pol had seen a change in the ambassadors, those who'd made it out alive from the recent bombing. Many of them had already boarded ships to go back to their homeworlds.

T'Pol had never felt like an outsider on Earth before, not one so strange and regarded so suspiciously, before now. She'd never believed the planet to become so anxiously dangerous and barbaric until now.

She needed a friend, never more so than now. And yet now, she didn't have one available.

---

Within two days of the bombing, T'Pol visited the doctor, who'd given her a clean bill of health while asking she refrain from working for another week.

While in the hospital, she stopped in on Shran who'd undergone a day and a half ago. As T'Pol pushed the door open, she smiled internally – not outwardly – at the sight. Jhamel was nestled by her husband's side talking quietly with him, and Tallah was holding a doll and an ice pick. When T'Pol took a step forward into the room, the first to notice was Jhamel.

"T'Pol?" she asked, blindly.

Each member of the family ducked their head, as if expecting someone else behind T'Pol who hadn't produced himself.

_Jonathan_, she thought.

When the expectation died, mostly because no one showed behind her and the door swung behind her, the conversation began.

"I'm glad you came. How are you?" Shran asked.

"I am well, all because of you."

Shran shrugged. "Don't let it get to your head, _Vulcan_."

"How are you?" she asked, ignoring his good-natured insult.

"I don't know why they insist on keeping me here. On Andoria, a wound like this is considered superficial."

Jhamel hid a smile as T'Pol shook her head. "Of course. I brought you a gift," she said. "I think you could use it here."

Her finger felt at the pouch tied to a belt that hung around her middle and she produced a crystal. Setting it by his bed, she fingered a few buttons near it and noticed the room grow colder as shadows, like icicles, danced on the walls.

The man looked genuinely touched as Tallah marveled at the device.

"A tylarah," the child said in awe.

The crystals were rare outside of Andoria, and it had taken some significant bargaining to get the owner of the store to part with it.

"It has been many years since I've seen one of these," he said. "Thank you."

"Of course." She paused. "It appears I am in your debt."

A smile crept over his lips. "You owe me a favor now."

"Oh?"

"Uh-huh. I'll get back to you," he said.

Her eyebrows shot up at the prospect.

"I heard Pelletier declared war. I also saw that the Earthlings protested it. Something it seems we risked our lives for," Shran said. "Fratog!"

Jhamel hushed her husband. "The doctor asked you to rest and relax."

"You said to me that every planet has dissenters, including Andoria," T'Pol said.

Shran frowned.

"The humans are … frightened," T'Pol said.

"Scared? They don't know the half of it. I've heard tales that the Romulans are fierce warriors, with extraordinary cunning," Shran said.

"Yes. I have heard the same," offered T'Pol.

Jhamel's blind eyes went to her child and then toward the Vulcan. "Andoria is closer to Romulan space. If we were there …."

Shran's face fell. "Andoria will be all right. General Krag is already drafting military to serve as protection for the planet. What about Vulcan?"

"We have several ships protecting the planet and our colonies. The service is voluntary, but I believe my people understand the consequences."

"And Tellar?" he asked, quietly.

"Minister T'Pau indicated they too were reinforcing their perimeter. It might be in the best interests of our people, since our planets are close, to help each other."

Shran nodded. "General Krag already gave me permission to provide any intelligence to you."

"Thank you. We of course have pledged the same."

The two former enemies regarded each other as Jhamel broke the silence.

"Have you seen Gral, T'Pol?" the Aenar asked.

"No. I came straight here."

"He looks so frail," she said.

T'Pol said, "Have the doctors changed his status?"

"No."

Shran's antennae hung down. "Seems like the Council is more fractured than ever."

T'Pol thought about her rift with Archer and bowed her head as well. She's called him for personal reasons, mostly to ensure he was well or to ask if now was "soon" enough, but he had yet to contact her back.

"Indeed," the Vulcan said.

---

She talked a few more hours, ignoring Shran's request for ale, and then headed to the burned out hull of a building that used to represent the Federation. Starfleet security was crawling – almost literally – all over the grounds looking for clues. When she arrived, she saw Captain Reed leading the investigation with the same precision and skill he'd given while on Enterprise.

_No one is more efficient than Malcolm._

It gave her solace that he was the man in charge. And the moment she showed, he stopped what he was doing to see her.

"I can't tell you how happy Hoshi and I are that you're okay," he said.

"I appreciated your 'get well' flowers. They were unnecessary."

Malcolm smiled. "Hoshi and I thought you might determine they were illogical, but …. Well, we were thinking about you."

"The sentiment was … touching."

His smile broadened.

"It's hard to believe isn't it?" he said, nodding toward the building.

"It is."

"I don't want to press you, but we're interviewing people for their account. If you have time tomorrow morning …?"

"I will assist in any way possible."

"Thanks. Come by at 0800, and maybe I can take you to breakfast."

"Breakfast? That sounds agreeable."

As the two looked back at the building, Malcolm's voice lowered.

"Have you seen Shran or Gral?" he asked.

"I just came from the hospital. Shran is recuperating and should leave tomorrow. Gral on the other hand …. His condition is not favorable."

"Good news about Shran. I'm sorry to hear about Gral."

"As am I. However, I believe the man has great stamina. I believe he will … rally."

Malcolm laughed. "Rally? You've been hanging around humans too long."

"I believe you are correct," she said.

As he was about to come back with something, he heard his name shouted in the background by one of the guards.

"Captain Reed!"

Turning his head, looking at the man waving a piece of evidence, Malcolm turned to his friend. "Duty calls."

With that Reed walked away. T'Pol, without disrupting the areas quarantined by security, took one more step toward the building and hung her head.

_Sera._

Her funeral was tomorrow. In fact, funerals began in earnest in tomorrow – giving just enough time to plan them and for the families' wishes to become known. Some would be celebrations of life – complete with a festive party, some would be solemn occasions to grieve the loss of a soul. Whatever the particular way to honor the dead, T'Pol wasn't looking forward to them. And she was least looking forward to Sera's.

Her eyes scanned the debris that littered the ground and the men that tagged evidence. Closing them, she relived the moment Shran heard Jhamel's voice.

_Clawing her way to fresh air, she saw smoke and debris all around her, making it difficult to breathe. Grabbing Shran with one hand and raising him into the air and onto secure land, her eyes darted for the exit._

_Although badly injured, Shran pushed away from the Vulcan. _

"_Andorians walk," he muttered. _

_With purpose, he marched – pained though he was – to the nearest exit as he grabbed T'Pol's confused hand. Her balance had been compromised and the ringing in her ears deafened almost all other sounds, save one._

_As they made their way through smoke and out of the ashes of a crumbled building, T'Pol thought she heard Jonathan protest that she was still alive. Mumbling, she told Shran the direction and the two headed there, limping. Finally, she knew she was right as Shran yelled the name of his wife._

"_Jhamel!"_

_Pushed aside so he could take his wife in his arms, T'Pol felt herself about to stumble when Jonathan caught her. He was warm, much more so than she, and his face appeared wet … and yet, a smile spread from ear to ear. _

_Before she could do anything, he'd kissed her head, face and lips, and then he crushed her to his chest as he stroked her hair. For a moment, it was comforting – not just the feeling of her head being petted, but the feeling of his arms around her. It brought great security and peace of mind, mostly because she knew that he was okay, too. _

There was another reason to feel comfort: closeness. It was something she'd missed.

For the past eleven years, the man had touched her forearm, bicep or shoulder (sometimes both shoulders) to communicate to her. Almost daily. Somehow the non-verbal communication managed to get through even when she disagreed with the message. She'd always considered it their special way of talking. Just like she'd always known when he wanted her to accompany him to another area of the ship, into his Ready Room, in a shuttle or into the transporter.

She hadn't made any physical contact with him for a week, and being in his arms meant not just that she'd survived and that he did, it indicated the closeness they'd lost had suddenly been recaptured.

_If he's my friend and I find him attractive, perhaps I should consider something more permanent with him._

The idea had sparked into her brain before, but she'd dismissed it. Vulcans, at least in her estimation, couldn't love the same way humans could. She could hold a great affection for him, share the fires of Pon Farr with him if and when they came or sacrifice her life for him, but the essence of love – the mystical emotion she'd never understood – couldn't be attained.

Pondering war, life, death and love, she made her way back home where she found a message waiting from her – one from Admiral Gardner asking her to meet him tomorrow afternoon.

---

After breakfast, where she and Malcolm discussed mostly personal business, and a morning's interview, where she answered detailed questions about exactly how she found the bomb, Malcolm asked her out for lunch.

Her first inclination was to decline, he'd already showed great hospitality, but because she had a meeting with Gardner at one o'clock, she decided to lunch with him in Starfleet's cafeteria. He looked as though he needed to, and as they sat down with full trays, he apologized for "grilling her." She expected him to be thorough, and reassured him with her Vulcanly stead voice, that she had not been barbequed in any way.

They moved onto the topic of her new apartment, when T'Pol expressed she would like to have Hoshi and Malcolm over and then talked about their upcoming wedding plans. After they'd spent an hour together, Reed offered to take both their trays and the two departed so that T'Pol could meet Admiral Gardner by 1300 hours.

The Vulcan strolled down hallways, traipsing on blue carpet, pausing only momentarily before Archer's old office door before rounding the corner to Gardner's. She was greeted by an assistant – a man in his early thirties, who indicated she'd have to wait a few minutes. Peeking through the barely open door in the office, she saw Matt pacing in front of a terminal and then shut it off. The second he did, his assistant carefully poked his head in.

"Your one o'clock is here, sir. Should I send T'Pol in?"

"Please do."

The assistant smiled and opened the door for her. When she entered, she noticed the office was in more disarray than the last time she'd visited him. Stacks of papers were piled on top of each other and he had a dress uniform hanging on the coat rack. To her it meant he wasn't getting much sleep.

"You're a sight for sore eyes. How ya feeling?" he asked. The man crossed his room and then stood awkwardly beside her, determining whether to shake her hand or just stand at a distance.

To make him feel at ease, she offered her hand and he accepted it eagerly, pumping it.

"Well, thank you."

"In all seriousness, I'm glad to see you. I understand you nearly didn't make it out the other day."

"I was … fortunate, sir."

"Sir? Don't need to call me that any more," he said, smiling. Growing a little serious, he continued. "Captain Reed already spoke to you I take it?"

"Yes."

"The investigation on the bombing has to be thorough … and frankly it's slow going. We have a lot of people to appease. I --"

"It's understandable. You haven't inconvenienced me and seeing Malcolm is always pleasant."

"Good. Have a seat," he said.

She folded herself in two in a nearby seat as Matt crossed his arms, standing directly in front of her.

"Prime Minister Pelletier asked me to speak with you."

Raising her eyebrows, she waited.

He said, "We want you to try and get the Council back together, especially now that you're the only one at the Council. It makes sense for--"

"Ambassador Shran is leaving the hospital today and there is your own ambassador – Jonathan."

"Well, I'm glad to hear about Shran, but … we already relieved Jon of his title."

"Oh?"

"I asked him to serve in the front a couple of days ago."

Her face must've conveyed surprise, because the admiral knitted his brow. "I'm sorry, I assumed he would've told you. I understood you two to be friends."

"As did I," she said, bowing her head. "What is his assignment?"

"Maybe you should talk with him."

"What is his assignment?" she asked again, more pointedly.

Matt scratched his head and then turned to the Vulcan. "I've asked him to help coordinate the fleet and engage the Romulans. The Andorians, Tellarites and Vulcans all trust him, it seemed like the best use of his skills."

"I see."

"If you two are friends, you may want to know he'll be joining the front in less than three weeks."

"In three weeks?" she asked, standing. Although Vulcans were difficult to stun, she was shocked.

Matt frowned, backing up. "That's right. He leaves in less than three weeks on the Potomac."

"I see," she said. Staring at the floor, she accepted the information. _Three weeks. Why didn't he tell me?_

"Do you need a minute?"

_Why didn't he tell me? _With confusion, she stared up at Matt. "Of course not. Although the news is unexpected, I am _Vulcan_. I find it regretful that an ambassador such as Archer would be called away to battle."

Nodding, he went on with his initial request. "We need the Council to get back together. I'm asking Vulcan to take the lead on this effort. With Gral in the hospital and his situation uncertain, I …. Let's put it this way, T'Pol: we need you more than ever. It'll be difficult to defeat the Romulans."

She agreed. "It will."

"We need everyone we can get."

"I see. And you would like me to bring this request to T'Pau?"

"I would."

She gave a firm nod. "I can tell you T'Pau agrees with your assessment."

"Good. That means you'll do it?"

"Yes."

He smiled. "I'm glad to hear it."

As she turned to walk about the door, his voice caught her ear. "Thank you, T'Pol. I have to say, the day you left Starfleet was a sad one. You would've been an excellent captain."

"Thank you," she whispered.

With that, she left. The first step after the door closed behind seemed the most difficult, and as she tried to regain emotional control she felt her footing slip for just a moment. When the assistant rushed to her side, she assured him she was well and continued – without further discussion – out the door.

_Why didn't he tell me?_

Battle with the Romulans was bound to be arduous and long, more difficult than the humans could imagine. The species, from what she experienced on Enterprise, had technology far superior to the humans. In fact, their advances were superior to those of the Vulcans as well. The reports from T'Pau about her ancient brethren were that they were fierce killers with no morals.

_Jonathan will be at the front. He will be in Starfleet's flagship to oversee operations – a target for the Romulans. _

Hailing a shuttle, making her way back home, her brain wouldn't let go of that thought.

_In less than three weeks Jonathan will be fighting the Romulans. And his chances of making it back to Earth would be small. Minute. Infinitesimal._

When she heard Enterprise would enter the Expanse, she had great difficulty thinking about her comrades and friends giving their lives without her. She had no love for Vulcan High Command, despite a healthy respect for Soval, so her choice seemed clear: stay with the humans.

_This time?_

Serving Vulcan was her mission. And yet more than anything she wished to stand next to Archer even as he entered battle. Even if it meant her very life.

_Why am I pondering my role? He is assigned to be Earth's ambassador, _he_ should stay._

It was clear. Earth, if he stepped down, had no clear leader and although the Federation was in shambles, it would eventually reconvene and need his services and expertise. Although pigheaded, he'd proved to be invaluable.

And then a thought crossed her mind, one that made her stomach tighten and her teeth clench.

_He must have volunteered._

Jonathan had always been an egotistical man, she reckoned, a man who believed he controlled the future. Tweaking the nose of danger seemed to give the man pleasure. This time taunting it would no doubt leave him wounded or worse.

_He could die._

Her brain then jumped back to her original thought and she focused in on it like a laser.

_He kept this information from me._

_How dare he keep this information from me? We have been friends too long for him to accept this assignment in secret._

Stepping out the shuttle, her feet carried her farther than she'd intended to go and soon she realized she'd passed her apartment and had already begun walking to the building Archer lived in. Gliding into the skyscraper, mostly because a kindly older couple recognized her, she punched the button that lead to Archer's apartment. As the elevator shot toward his floor, she found herself uncharacteristically angry, even folding her arms across her chest and trying to steady her breath.

When the elevator stopped, she got out and rung the door chime, jabbing her thumb against the button more than once. The door slid open to show Archer dressed in sweats with bare feet, as if enjoying a day off. Surprised, he stared at her.

"Hey, I didn't think --" he said.

Slipping past him, she entered his living room and stared, barely noticing the door shutting behind before interrupting, her voice clipped as if holding back a fury.

"You're leaving for the front in less than three weeks," she said. "And you neglected to tell me."

"Who--?"

"Why?"

"What?"

"Why did you keep this information clandestine?"

"I just …." He stared at her and then looked down at his bare feet. "I was planning on telling you, but --"

"It's a foolish mission," she said. "You should decline. Earth needs you as its ambassador."

As if ending the disagreement she dared him reply. Unfortunately, he did.

"Earth needs a commander, a leader. And my prime minister and admiral have asked me … ordered me to go. I didn't have much of a choice, not that I would decline their request."

"I disagree with your assessment."

"I'm going."

Glancing around his apartment she noticed small things were gone – pictures, things that were important and could be packed early and easily.

She said, "It's illogical. You're making a mistake."

He voice tried to calm her. "I'm in Starfleet as an admiral; my assignment as ambassador was temporary. Besides, I still have a few weeks and--"

"You board the Potomac in _less_ than three weeks."

"That's right."

"Jonathan, surely you realize you could perish in the front." She'd intended the tone of her voice to sound logical, but realized the emotion behind it that threatened to betray her. Indeed her lip quivered at the notion, something she controlled the moment it trembled, but not before he noticed.

"I'll be back."

"I don't believe you should leave."

"It's not up to you."

"I … I don't want you to leave."

He shook his head and closed in on her. As she watched him, she noticed a lump was developing in her throat – a purely illogical and highly emotional one. The confusion on his face was understandable and apparent, and he tried to explain himself.

"T'Pol, I'm not leaving because of what happened between us …. This is the right thing to do."

"I am concerned that a friend of mine is giving his life needlessly."

"You know it's not needless," he whispered, getting a little closer. A hand reached up and gripped her shoulder while a soft smile spread across his face. "You'll be fine without me, in fact--"

She cut him off in mid-sentence by placing her mouth on his as her hand came to cradle the side of his face. Pushing her gently away, he stared in disbelief.

"T'Pol?"

Ignoring his question and confoundedness, she kissed him again this time with more defiance, ignoring his silent plea to stop, until he gingerly broke free.

He said, "You said just a few days ago …."

"Perhaps I have been too hasty."

He furrowed his brow slightly. "Let's talk."

Taking her hand in his, he led her to his sofa. After the two sat down, he began the discussion.

"_This_ is the reason I didn't tell you." Softening, he cupped the side of her face. "I knew you'd be upset. I didn't want this to affect your feelings."

"It is impossible for this information _not_ to impact my feelings. I care about you."

Her lips sought his out again, and she noticed he kissed back for a few moments, with passion – his mouth opening, before retreating.

"A relationship is more than just …." He gazed into her eyes searching for the right word.

"More than our lips touching? I know." Two fingers caressed his and she could tell he enjoyed it, despite ending their connection.

"I was going to say, 'A relationship is more than just caring.'"

"What do you want?" she asked.

"It's not about what I want. The other day, I got the impression you not only didn't feel the same way, you _couldn't_."

Her eyes averted his.

He said, "I guess what I want is … I want to know this isn't just about me leaving."

She couldn't say for sure and remained quiet.

"That's what I thought," he said.

Sliding her fingertips along his cheek, she knitted her brow. "Jonathan, do you know when next we will see each other?"

"You mean after I go?"

She nodded.

His face fell. "I'll be back."

Letting her fingers caress his skin, she didn't agree or disagree – even though she feared he wouldn't return. With each caress, she felt his breathing become more labored.

"I feel for you. I consider you my closest friend. I cherish our time together, even look forward to it – which is rare for a Vulcan," she whispered. "Is that not enough?"

He let out a sigh. "What about for the next three weeks, not just today?"

"You're concerned I will feel differently?"

"Yes," he said.

"I won't."

"What about if I return?"

"You have told me: there are no guarantees in life. Perhaps we should be concerned about that when the time approaches."

To sway him, she spread her fingers into the Vulcan greeting and glided her index and middle fingers along his jaw, running her ring and pinky finger along his throat.

"Let me show you, in human terms, how I feel."

His breath stuttered, and for a moment he looked conflicted. Winding her fingers along his throat to neck of his sweatshirt, she tried to convince him.

"You said you feel love for me?" she asked, her voice quiet.

"Yes," he said, in a low voice. His brow furrowed and his eyes held the same fear when he'd whispered it to her the other day.

"Tell me," she said.

He mimicked her motions, swerving his fingers along her jaw, and answered her in a hushed voice.

"I can't stop thinking about you … about being with you, listening to you, enjoying your company."

Smiling, he continued. "I think about the amusing things you say, your intelligence and wisdom. I think about time we've spent together on Enterprise and how there were many times I couldn't have gone on without you. I think about the last few weeks with you …."

Her fingers darted over his lips and he closed his eyes as he whispered through them.

"I can't stop thinking about holding you in my arms and kissing you. I can't stop thinking about taking you to my bed."

He opened his eyes.

"Show me," she whispered.

Unexpectedly, his tongue darted out to flick at her fingers as if he knew a Vulcan mating practice, one that was used during Pon Farr to stoke the fires that burned; it was a signal between partners that the blood fever needed to be extinguished. Startled, she drew her hand away and before she could respond, he pressed his mouth against hers. The kiss was deep and long, and before she could catch her breath, she felt his lips and tongue on her neck and ears.

The caresses became more intense over the next hour, as if he were aflame, until she pushed his sweatshirt from his chest. Reeling back, she watched his cheeks flush as he stood, tugging at her hand to join him.

"Yes," she said at the unasked question.

And with that, he scooped her into his arms and wandered into the bedroom shutting the door before Porthos could trot in after them.

---

A chime at the door brought Archer to consciousness.

Opening his eyes slowly, he saw T'Pol wound in his sheets curled up next to him dead to the world. Her shoulder-length hair was draped over his pillow – fanned out – and her lips were barely parted.

With a sigh, he gazed at her – only for a second – before carefully climbing out of bed and putting his clothes on. Running the last bit before the door could chime again and wake T'Pol, he opened it without looking at who his visitor was. With a smile on both faces, Archer saw his friend.

"Shran!" he said.

Before Archer could say anything else, the blue man pushed past him and entered his apartment. Taking a look at his open bedroom door, Jon thought about heading straight over there to close it, when the Andorian sniffed at the air.

"I heard that humans weren't tidy, but …. Your house smells like animals have mated."

Jon furrowed his brow and made his way nonchalantly to his bedroom to close the door. When his hand was on the knob and before he could stop his blue friend, the Andorian made his way to the living room to sit down. Holding up a sweatshirt, one that had been pushed off his shoulders last night, his antennae whirled.

"You need a woman to clean up after you! Human cleanliness is worse than I've heard."

Just as Archer had nearly closed his door, feeling he was scot-free, a voice managed to break through the brief silence.

"Jonathan?" T'Pol asked.

The Andorian stood up. "What was that?"

Archer poked his head around the door. T'Pol was sitting up, the sheet around her with a confused expression on her face, and Archer smiled.

"Shran stopped by. He's in the living room."

"Oh."

"Want me to fix you something? Tea?"

"Yes," she said. "May I use your shower?"

"Yeah. There are clean towels under the sink," he said. He produced a gentle smile. "I … uh … I'll talk with you soon."

There was more he wanted to say, but it would have to wait. Closing the door behind him, he turned to the Andorian who beamed from ear-to-ear, almost directly behind him.

"So I _did_ smell the mating of animals!" he said.

Archer frowned, going to his kitchen to make tea, Shran traveling directly behind him.

Jon said, "You can give me a hard time, but leave her alone."

The man's antennae drooped. "All right." And with mischief, he prodded his friend. "How was it?"

A grin sheepishly worked onto Jon's face, one that he attempted in vain to hide.

"Great," he said.

Shran gave a deep laugh as Archer refrained from giving a chuckle, one that he could feel tickle his stomach.

"I knew it was only a matter of time!" Shran said.

"You want some tea, too?"

Wincing he shuddered. "Do you have ale?"

"It's eight in the morning."

"So?"

"You just got out of the hospital."

"Nothing brings an Andorian back to health more than ale."

"How about some coffee?"

The Andorian frowned. "Fine."

Archer went about making the substance as the Andorian gloated behind him. "I knew the two of you would end up in bed together. Although I have to admit I thought it would happen sooner. The way you two were in bed together after your injury sustained from the disruptor, I thought you two would be tyla-tora in no time."

The human shook his head, ignoring the jibes. Although he wasn't sure what tyla-tora meant, he decided he understood the connotation.

"Still glad to be here for this occasion," Shran said.

"Why _are_ you here?"

"I heard that you were leaving for the front from General Krag. Is that true?"

"News gets around." The blue man looked serious, waiting for a response. "Yeah, it's true."

"I was afraid so."

"Who will replace you on the Council?"

"If you haven't noticed there isn't a Council."

"There's me, you and your mate," Shran said.

Growing a little serious, Archer poured coffee for the two and sat down at the table next to Shran. "She's not really my mate."

"You two--?"

"We did. But, it's not really that simple."

"I thought it was Earth tradition?"

Perplexed, Archer shook his head. "No."

"You people are confusing. Why not?"

"It just isn't."

"You had me looking forward to pointy-eared Pink Skins for a moment." He leaned in. "You mated with her without feeling love?" Suddenly the man's antennae poked forward threateningly. "I would hope you would treat T'Pol better than that."

Easing his hands in front of him, he tried to explain. "I _do_ love her, it's just --" interrupted by T'Pol entering the room.

"You have tea?" she asked.

"Yeah," he said. He got up and poured a cup, watching the Andorian beam. "You're up late, Vulcan. I wanted to ask you something."

"Shran," Archer warned.

T'Pol peaked her brow as the blue man backed off. "What?"

"We had an agreement."

"I didn't say anything!" Shran said.

"Keep it that way."

Shran frowned. "Well, I was going to say if the Council does reconvene, I'm ready." As if to make a point, he thudded his coffee mug onto the table and gave a nasty look to Jon.

"Thanks for the coffee," Shran said.

Archer nodded and the blue man walked out, looking back over his shoulder once and then sighing. When the door shut, T'Pol noted quietly.

"Shran seems to have impeccable timing."

He chucked under his breath. "A sixth sense."

Sliding in to sit across from her, he gave her a lopsided smile. He put down his mug and leaned forward to touch hands as she accepted them.

"You're not sorry, are you?" he asked.

"No." Gazing at him with confusion, she stated again. "No."

"The melding last night--" he whispered.

"I wanted to see into your mind."

"It was …."

"More intimate than our physical union?"

"Yes."

"You do not regret that decision, do you?"

"No." He hesitated for a moment, thinking back to last night.

_After the most intimate of acts, they both lay on their side watching each other – satisfied and awestruck (at least him). Stroking his temple, she whispered so quietly he wasn't sure he heard her correctly. _

"_I would like to do something."_

_A few playful thoughts came to his brain, but he shooed them away; she seemed serious._

"_What?" he asked._

"_I would like to engage in a practice that allows me to share my thoughts with you."_

"_A mind meld?"_

"_Yes."_

_A smile worked its way to his mouth. Although he shouldn't have known this, he knew Vulcans were selective about who they shared their minds with. It made the honor more important._

"_All right," he said. It hadn't taken him long to make the decision and he guessed that she was surprised by it._

_Leaning in for another kiss, he felt her fingers touch his temple, the side of his nose and jaw. The moment he scooted toward her to let his bare legs touch hers, he felt her mind open up to him – one that was highly ordered and organized, as if multiple processors churned on various bits of data at the same time. Like a sea of white, her inner thoughts were calming and serene with the occasional bobble of emotion; even those were smoothed out by utter calm. _

_Few things seemed to move her other than beauty, sacrifice and loyalty. Seeing into her mind, he knew that _he_ moved her. Instances in their past had proved sacrifice and loyalty. She believed there was always an essence of beauty in him, but never would've fathomed its depth had he not confessed his love for her._

_As the meld continued and she searched his thoughts about her, he showed her what she meant to him – years of friendship that little by little grew to more until it evolved into longing; it gave her pause, and the intensity of the moment made her retract her fingers ending their link._

_They kissed again, both the human style and Vulcan, and then she turned over, curling into his stomach ready to accept sleep as he spooned around her. Although she was still in his arms, he could feel she was restless._

"_You shouldn't worry you don't feel the same, T'Pol," he whispered. "You're Vulcan."_

_He could see her nuzzling the pillow, even in the dark. "I never performed a mind meld with Trip," she said. "Humans …."_

"_I think I understand a little better," he told her. He snuggled her into him._

"_As do I," she said, with a troubled voice._

_With that, the two fell asleep._

"Do you regret melding?" he asked.

The Vulcan shivered slightly as if remembering as well. "No."

Leaving his chair, he sat in the one directly next to her.

T'Pol said, "When I melded with Hoshi, the experience was almost as if she whispered the events of Phlox's kidnapping to me and yet I could see it with my mind's eye. Exchanging thoughts with you was different."

"You and Hoshi weren't sharing emotion."

"No, we were not." She shook her head and her gaze fell to her lap. "That's not exactly what I have been concerned about."

"What is it?"

"There is a Vulcan ritual, where two minds become intertwined."

Scanning his memory, he couldn't decipher the concept. It seemed he didn't remember _everything_ from Surak's katra.

"It is called a bond," she said.

He waited.

"It is difficult to explain in human terms, but … imagine two beings latched to each other exchanging thoughts and ideas simply by using their minds."

"Telepathy?"

"Precisely. There is another connotation though. Sharing this telepath link means the two of us would be …."

"Married?" he asked, a little astonished.

"No," she said. "I don't believe you have a word for it. We would be … linked."

He asked, "How does a bond happen?"

"I am wholly uncertain. I know I developed one with Trip more than a year after we were intimate. The cause is mysterious." She paused as if trying to recall memories. "Perhaps it was caused by Elizabeth. When Phlox indicated I had a daughter, I could somehow sense her as if perhaps she was the reason for the bond. And when she died, the bond with Trip was broken."

She became silent at the mention of her late child. Jerking his head back, he asked her a question as his hands instinctively knew to comfort her – folding over hers.

"And you think because we were intimate that we will develop one?" he asked.

"Although at the moment our two species are incapable of offspring, I wonder if there could be other triggers." Pausing and searching his face, she spoke. "It is one of the reasons I wanted to meld. I wanted to determine if a connection had been sparked."

"I see."

Running two fingers along his, she reassured him. "Sharing our thoughts was my primary reason. This was a convenient way to also establish if there was more between us."

"I didn't doubt that." He smiled softly. "So, did you … sense anything?"

"No." She sounded neither disappointed nor happy; her tone was flat.

"What if you were telepathically linked with me?"

"Having the connection presents challenges. Trip's thoughts were sometimes distracting."

He gave a lopsided grin.

"And he indicated sometimes while I meditated, he daydreamed."

"Sounds like your thoughts were distracting as well."

"Perhaps." An eyebrow rose at the comment.

"Maybe we can cross that bridge if it happens. You said even your bond with Trip faded."

"It did … when Elizabeth perished."

He hands smoothed over hers, and he spoke softly to her. "So even if one develops there's no guarantee my thoughts will … distract you."

A twinkle formed in her eye.

"I think it's worth the risk," he said.

He'd intended just to stroke her cheek, but was elated that she leaned over to press her mouth to his. When she backed away, a twinkle formed in her eye.

"Jonathan, you asked if I regretted my decision." Holding his chin in her fingers she rubbed her nose along his. "Nothing could be further from the truth."

He kissed her again.

"Are you doing anything today?" he asked. In his mind he'd planned out a lazy day of spending time together, he didn't really care what they were doing.

"There is Sera's funeral."

"That's right." In the excitement, he'd momentarily forgotten about the sage lady who had graced the Council for more than six years. He nodded with a frown. "I'm sorry. I know you liked her, so did I."

"It is unfortunate." She set her tea down and held his hand in hers. "I researched the customs around funerals for many species including the Xindi."

Brushing a hair away from her face, he asked. "What do the Xindi do?"

"They celebrate life."

"Like some humans." He gave a sad smile. "I think Sera would've liked that."

"Indeed."

"How do they celebrate?"

"I can show you." Whispering into his ear, she tugged at his hand. "Come with me to bed."

TBC

---

A/N: I tried to get this out before the holidays. I apologize for typos and information that seems incomplete.


	23. Chapter 23

A/N: I'm so sorry it's been so long since I've updated. Not only has life been a bit busier than normal, thanks to the holidays which lasted past January for me, but I had a little trouble writing this chapter.

--

Many events happened during the next 17 days.

The Terrans became more nervous as Starfleet ships left one after another, deployed to fight the Romulans or sent to guard Earth and its colonies. More humans left planets not contained within the Sol system to head to Mars, the moon or Earth where they decided protection would be greatest. Even the humans on Titan, one of Jupiter's moons, were nervous despite the small base of Starfleet personnel and the ships that patrolled the perimeter.

Humans on the planet hadn't fared much better. It was too soon after the Xindi attack, one that killed seven million of its inhabitants. False alarms at shuttle stations, in shopping centers and near complexes where aliens dwelled were reported on a daily basis.

Earth's vessels were amassing, waiting for final instructions before delivering the first offensive. And the humans held their collective breaths to see exactly what an alien, one completely unknown to them, had in store for their race, planet and colonies.

The blue warrior race, the Andorians, on the other hand was used to war. Their planet ramped up with efficiency and ease. Although the Andorian people were nervous about joining forces with both the Vulcans and the Tellarites, they thought of the glory of the Andorian people once they remained victorious, and they believed they would be.

Until Tahor, one of Andorian's colonies - an outer one - was attacked. Orion ships amassed around the planet, like an armada, to destroy the outpost and the more than 300 Andorians on it. It was an execution. As soon as General Krag, the Andorians leader heard the news, he sent Andorian ships – outside of the declaration (the agreement) they'd signed with Vulcan, Tellar and Earth – to strike back by leading a major military effort against Orion. Taking troops away from the front, Andoria re-assigned them to engage the Orions at a location on the edge of the Andromeda galaxy, near Sol.

The move caused Earth, Tellar and Vulcan to protest loudly, pointedly and with reason that the races needed to work together, else they would crumble at the Romulan's defeat. Although Andoria's General Krag apologized in quiet, his words and tone to his people were far from it. Shran, a smart and reasonable man … a friend to T'Pol, defended his leader's position staunchly. As was common for those of his race who approved of war, he took a blade to his hand and cut the skin so that blue drops fell heavily onto the ground. And then with a yellow bandage, he wrapped it, wearing it like a badge of honor.

Vulcan wasn't immune to unrest. Minister T'Pau uncovered five other Romulan agents who appeared as Vulcans relaying military secrets and trying to undermine the Vulcan High Command. Of course, she didn't share that information with many; however, she did share it with T'Pol. The two women, though neither would say so, were nervous.

In addition, many of T'Pau's people were dismayed, if an emotion was assigned, at the seemingly aggressive nature of the Vulcans, arguing that the Kir'Shara preached peace even at the expense of being killed. Although it wasn't T'Pau's interpretation (nor T'Pol's), the movement was gaining momentum.

There were also those who were simply dismayed, they decided logically so, that Vulcan had allied with an age-old enemy, the Andorians, and wondered why they would befriend strange barbarians from a planet with mostly water, the Terrans. They also pondered the reason behind supporting the most annoying species they'd encountered – Tellarites. It wasn't Surak's way to hold prejudice, but Vulcan had to remain pure to a certain extent to keep the planet from reverting back to the dark days before logic.

And then there were some that questioned why an emotional Vulcan attached to Earth, one that had already served with them, was allowed to negotiate for the entire planet. T'Pol was beginning to develop a reputation with her people. Behind her back they called her: V'Tosh Ka'Tur. A noun, one that meaning she was _the_ Vulcan without logic. A few attempted to voice their concerns to T'Pau, but the minister stayed steadfast in her choice.

Tellar had problems, too. Tyr, the leader of his people, was the greatest debater on his planet and yet he was caught in a debate with the Parliament of "why being involved in the war was a good idea." Government affairs came to a standstill as the debate dragged on. Tellarites waited, almost with baited breath, questioning who would finally win and yet paralyzed until there was a decided victor. It caused their people to debate each other on the same issue, hoping for some resolution.

Gral hadn't recovered yet. He was still in ICU with tubes and instruments swirling out, in and around his body. Phlox, assigned to the case, was optimistic, but cautiously so. He'd indicated the man would take months before fully recovering. Much like Vulcans, Tellars induced a light coma to heal; Phlox associated it to hibernating, saving vital functions while repairing the body and reserving strength. There were no guarantees about when Gral would awake and no one – not even a Tellar – could predict that date.

Shran, Jhamel, Archer and T'Pol attended many funerals, as did many of the top brass of Starfleet. The services of Sera, Kator, ambassadors, janitors and interns from the devastating bombing of the Federation building all had varying customs – wailing, eternal celebrations of life and remembrances.

Sera's was a testament to her – held at her house (one that her husband still occupied). Friends and family were invited to say a few words and share stories about the ambassador and finally as the sunset everyone departed. During the service, which Jonathan called "beautiful," T'Pol held two fingers down at her side – out of anyone's vision – with her former captain. Through their touch, she gathered strength and sadness, feeling more forlorn than if she hadn't rubbed fingers with him at all. And yet, their connection felt comforting, as if she wasn't experiencing grief and pain alone.

Kator's funeral had wailers, women crying at the top of their lungs, to grieve the dead man. Some of these women were family members – distantly so – and some were paid to grieve, a concept that seemed most illogical to T'Pol. As they held his body – what remained of it – aloft, wrapped in a shroud, they made their way in a procession to a pyre. Hoisting the body onto the flaming pit, the wailers pulled at their hair, danced wildly and cried again as the fire engulfed the body. This time through the touches between her and Jonathan, she could feel his heart pounding; the service was strange and tribal to him. There was sadness, but there was also fear and curiosity. Her first inclination was to remove her fingers and retract from his emotion, but instead, she held steadfast and shared her own thoughts: wonder and confusion.

There were a few things that hadn't changed. Starfleet security was _still_ investigating the bombing and trying to determine a culprit. Because of the damage done to the area of the blast, no fingerprints or DNA could be retrieved. Security cameras, ones that had already been cataloged showed nothing out of the ordinary. It was a quandary, and even Malcolm Reed – a man great tenacity – was stumped. And to the Vulcan, she began to suspect they'd never determine a culprit, and the crime would remain a mystery.

There was another unknown that hadn't been solved, and it was much worse. The aides on the Excelsior hadn't been heard from and hadn't been spotted, despite many sweeps by Starfleet vessels of nearby planets. There was talk supposing they'd been captured or killed. Either way, it was an unfortunate and realistic conclusion. At some point they'd have to declare these people lost or dead.

The only thing that had remained constant, a welcome relief and surprise, was T'Pol's relationship with Jonathan. Although the two had developed a physical relationship, he didn't demand more of her time, insist on touching her (fingers or lips) when others were present and he seemed mindful of her need to meditate and be alone. In fact, he'd acted exactly as he had before, precisely the exact opposite of how she anticipated he would behave. It amazed her that he took their relationship for exactly what it was without questioning her constantly or asking her to clarify it. And oddly, their physical relationship hadn't hampered their friendship, on the contrary, their intimacy made them closer friends.

Most likely this closeness was the reason she began melding with him more often.

Reaching into his mind and sharing his thoughts was satisfying in a way she hadn't hypothesized it would be. He was a man of great passions, fiercely so, which had astonished her. She knew he was emotional in the sense that all humans are, but she hadn't expected him to have such power and intensity to his feelings. Love, anger, frustration – they raged inside him like a fire that had been stoked - and yet the embers of that heat rarely made it to the surface. She also hadn't known it would be so easy to share his thoughts and that he would be so willing. The idea of what was secluded and clandestine to him running through her mind intrigued her. When she melded with him, he let her turn over information and examine it.

One other thing surprised her, and made her somewhat uncomfortable; he'd cared about her for a long time … even before she and Trip had shared their bodies, he'd cared for her in some fashion. As if the feeling wasn't allowed to exist, he'd purged it from his mind and left it in solitude until she arrived on Earth … when suddenly the idea germinated they could have more. He'd fought it, deeply, hoping to be only satisfied with friendship; but once she'd questioned his feelings, he couldn't remove the notion from his mind. And when he'd seen her emerge charred and rumpled after the explosion, with streaks of dust on her face and clothes, his heart had sung with triumph: "T'Pol is alive!" In desperation he'd kissed her, and doing so only made him want more. The electricity he felt had been unlike any he could remember. She could see in his mind's eye that even his knees had weakened at the caress of their lips.

There was something else yet to be anticipated. As the weeks rolled by she felt emotions she hadn't experienced in some time: the idea of Archer leaving disrupted her serenity. There were other feelings that surfaced, some of them were unknown to her.

When she'd entered the relationship, kissing him, it had been impulsive – a reaction to confounding emotions. By taking up with him, she realized something she had not understood before: she was _attached_ to him. Coming back to Earth, accepting a role as ambassador on his planet … she'd partly done these things to be near him, because it had always been safe and comfortable even when he was merely her friend.

All of these thoughts and feelings made her wonder.

---

Archer felt like the next 17 days were a blur, one day warping into the next, maybe because there was so much to do. Besides the funerals, he had to pack everything he needed for the next few months … or years … crammed into a smaller than small space on the Potomac. He also spent a great deal of time reading over the battle plans and strategies that had been created.

It reminded him that the data they knew about the Romulans was limited, severely so, which meant it was impossible to determine if the plans of attack would succeed. It was all guesswork.

He also ran errands, things that needed to be done before he left – paying bills, scheduling dates to turn off electricity and contacting a lawyer to update his will. His last will and testament hadn't been updated since before he left for Enterprise more than ten years ago. In fact, before it was updated, he'd had A.G.'s name … and Trip's. The fact that he'd have to update his will at all sent a chill over him. Maybe it was his older age, but he felt the uncertainty – not that he'd ever voice it – that _this_ time he wouldn't make it out.

During the time preparing for war, he'd also been invited to nearly everyone's house he knew – Malcolm, Shran, Hoshi, Gardner's …. T'Pol tagged along at most events, watching with what he imagined disapproval and a little dismay at his leaving. And at each event, he held himself at bay, struggling not to put his arm around her or snuggle her into him. Instead, he saved those moments of romanticism for when they were home and his movements would be welcome. Besides, he figured, it would be easier for her – without getting questions that were really nobody's business. It may also enable her to move on.

Moving on ….

The two had veered away from discussing what happened next and in many ways he could tell she wanted to leave it nebulous – allowing for whatever happened to just happen. And yet, he knew this woman; she was loyal to a fault. When he left, he envisioned her watching out her living room window every night and staring up at the heavens to think about him.

There'd be many moments where the Potomac would need to travel in communication silence, and he'd be unable to contact her for long periods of time.

_Hardly a relationship. _

_Not the kind she deserves._

Breaking up with girlfriends wasn't any new skill for Jon Archer. He'd ended most of the relationships he'd begun. There'd been a few he hadn't, although he'd given uncaring vibes which prompted girlfriends to put the kibosh on it. For example, Caroline had a job offer in New Berlin. Instead of talking her out of it, he'd assumed she would turn it down (there'd been other offers before), so he treated the news as if she'd decline by spending just as much time in the lab working on the NX ship.

Big mistake. It took her less than one week to accept the offer.

And looking back, he wasn't sure why he was surprised she left. Doesn't mean he didn't feel sorry for himself the day she did, or even a few days after.

Yeah, he was good at ending relationships and he'd had a lot of practice, but T'Pol was different. Unlike Caroline, he actually cared about the Vulcan enough to question the duty that Starfleet asked him to perform. He spent less time committed to reviewing plans and strategies, refusing to let himself become overly focused. _That_ was unlike him.

There were other signs. A large part of Jon wanted the woman to remain loyal to him, to give up her life waiting for him to return. And yet, he loved her enough he didn't want her to suffer so. It was a confusing mix of emotions.

It was love.

_If she can promise me she'll continue on with her life, maybe we can leave it nebulous._

Of course, in leaving it nebulous, he'd think about only her. In his cabin, when he was alone, he'd dream of being in her arms again and sharing his thoughts with her.

He'd miss that.

Jon never thought of T'Pol as austere, even if she sometimes seemed at times a little cold. While they melded, she'd show that her thoughts were much softer and warmer than he could've imagined. Her logical mask was just that – a mask – and the feelings that bubbled beneath the surface had yearning, as if they'd longed to break free. She'd show private moments, completely unexpected, like losing her mother and daughter. Those events still bothered her, prickling her skin and threatening to sting her eyes, so he held her and cooed into her ear as she reflected on those moments.

He'd loved few women, truly, over his long lifespan, but he was certain he loved her with a pain that made their departure much more difficult than he'd expected, and he'd anticipated it would suck. A lot.

He'd miss her.

The two had planned for him to spend his last evening at her apartment and then the next morning she would accompany him to the Potomac. It appealed to him – to stay in her bed and savor the taste and smell of her before leaving for battle. In a way, he believed it would carry him until he saw her again, if he ever did.

---

Three hours. It took three hours for the shuttle to fly from Sausalito to space dock, slip 17. T'Pol accompanied Archer the entire way, her fingers mingling with his, the sensation of it tickling with the same intensity as a small electric charge – the kind she received when she traveled back in time to Detroit and placed her finger too near a light socket.

Now, rather than surreptitiously allow their hands to make contact, she flaunted it by allowing their touches to be viewed, which she could tell bemused and astonished Jonathan.

_Not half as much as the amazement he apparently felt last night, _she thought

She'd greeted him at the door naked.

_There was a particular meditation that Vulcans sometimes resorted to, one that would ease their minds and katras, where the participant would disrobe to feel the inter-connectedness of the universe and absorb logic. Pure logic. T'Pol began such an encounter by disrobing and looking into the flame pot located in her living room._

_After a few hours, Jonathan, scheduled to arrive at her abode at seven, turned up early. He'd been relieved from a meeting, the last one before his voyage, earlier than he'd thought and had chimed the door. When she noted who was on the other side, she let him in without bothering to clothe herself._

_He'd seen it before._

_The moment he slipped into her apartment, he'd thrown her a smile._

"_This is a nice surprise," he said. _

With a slight creep of her eyebrow, she recalled it was sometime later before the two consumed dinner. The thought made her slide her index finger along his.

But last night wasn't just about physical comfort.

_The two had talked about everything that they could shove into one night, staying up quite late, lying next to each other in bed in the dark. The whisperings included when he thought he might be able to contact her again, where his updated will was located and how lucky he was to have this final moment with her before he left._

_During the discussion, they came to a strange agreement. He asked her, to use his words, "To continue living her life." She hardly imagined herself waiting – unable to act – until he returned, but she understood his connotation. _

_He said, "You're too loyal. If a man comes into your life …."_

_The idea was ludicrous. She mimicked his words, certain how he would react. "If a woman comes into yours …."_

_Even in the dark, she could see him furrow his brow. It's why she leaned over and let her lips fall on his. The man had no intention of seeing other women. And when he threatened to speak again, to clarify and talk about her future, she shut him up with further embraces._

_Some things were best left undefined, and he eventually saw her side of he argument after some cajoling._

_As they settled into the quiet, Porthos hopped on her bed, which didn't bother her as much as she would've supposed it would. Jonathan dislodged his dog only slightly to snuggle T'Pol into his arms. As she fell asleep she thought about this may be the last moment they have together as a couple._

Quickly she took her fingers from his.

"You okay?" he asked. A frown worked on his face, as if he could almost sense her emotions.

"Of course."

Risking a glance to the pilot, he pressed his lips against her temple and then whispered in her ear.

"Ashal-veh."

The word was Vulcan, and he'd picked it up in the second week of their courtship as if to prove he could say at least one thing in her native language. It had secretly amused her, mostly because Vulcans hardly ever spoke to each other so. She flattened her lips as she saw a smile creep across his; she also knew he used this word to challenge her.

"I will feel your absence," she whispered. "I regret that our minds won't merge for some time."

"I'll miss you, too," he said.

Occasionally time seemed to stand still, typically at important ventures. Vulcans of course dismissed the information as illogical, but she felt the seconds creep by as she looked into his face again and he turned his dark eyes to her. A connection had been made between the two, perhaps not bondmates (as she'd discovered through the series of mind melds the two had, almost with disappointment), but one that she'd deemed profound.

It wasn't every day that one could acknowledge having a best friend, lover and mind-mate, if the word existed, all wrapped up in one man. On Vulcan, such arrangements were rare and highly sought after. T'hy'la.

_If only we had more time, we could've bonded._

A large silver ship encased by an enormous metal structure floating around Jupiter appeared in the window and immediately her mate stood and placed his hand against the wall of the shuttle.

"It almost looks like Enterprise," he said.

With wide eyes, she joined her companion and then watched his face.

_It's not Enterprise, though. And I won't be at your side._

---

Archer leaned his head against the window, remembering seeing Enterprise for the first time. His old ship, and he thought of it as his, had the colors just right, as if he'd painted every centimeter himself. As captain of the vessel, he shouldn't have had any say (or care) what color it was, after all it belonged to someone else, but he'd wormed his way into voicing his opinion in the matter. He'd even pulled a few strings to get the gun metal silver just right.

Glancing at T'Pol, who looked almost as disappointed as he was, he reminded himself of one vital fact.

_But, this isn't _my_ ship._

The Potomac was someone else's vessel; it belonged to Chris Richards.

It wasn't just that, it didn't have the same meaty feel of Enterprise. The Potomac was sleeker, with a larger bridge located higher on the vessel and the nacelles were elongated for increased warp capacity. It also held more crewmen: more than 100. Being the fourth in the series of NX-class, it could travel to warp 7, provide a better phaser yield and even had shields – thanks to the Andorians – limited though they were.

When the ship docked, Archer steeled himself, holding the leash for Porthos tighter than most likely was necessary. The pomp and circumstance of welcoming a commanding officer would be tiresome, and though he'd wanted to slink back into his quarters and put away his things, while spending a few moments alone with T'Pol, he knew it wouldn't be good for morale. Before war, the men demanded a senior officer to smile as if the mission would succeed and lives wouldn't be lost.

It was a hard lesson, one he'd learned during the Expanse.

Taking a giant step toward the door that separated the shuttle and the Potomac, he noticed T'Pol stood at his side so he held two fingers up for her. It was, to the two of them, a clear sign they were a couple. Secretly, to him, it meant he didn't give a damn who knew about their affair.

The moment the door slid open and a pipe welcomed him on board, he took on his hawk-like expression, one that served to inspire fear in the Expanse, and pretended to examine the men, leaving T'Pol's side and letting the Beagles leash fall to the floor. Captain Richards, a man about 5'9" with dark brown hair and brown eyes stared back at the admiral. Archer stuck out his hand.

"Welcome aboard, sir," Chris Richards said. His hand grasped back, and the younger man pumped it with a beaming smile.

"Thank you."

"Ambassador T'Pol," Chris said, "It's a real honor to meet you."

He was wise enough to keep his hands to his side, but T'Pol raised an eyebrow and offered hers, which he accepted.

"The honor is returned."

Chris jabbed his thumb to an eager black man that hung slightly behind, beaming. "Lt. Mayweather has been waiting for this moment."

Archer's smile grew and threw his hand out, while clasping his back. "It's good to see you again, Travis."

"Likewise, sir." He then turned his outrageous smile to T'Pol. "Nice to see you, too, Ma'am."

Jon gave a purring laugh as T'Pol pointed an eyebrow to him.

Archer was introduced to the bridge crew. Ensign Xavier Mathers, a communications whiz – had a specialty in electronics and hacking, at least that's what Jon had read in the bio. He was a mere kid, about 24-years of age with jet black hair, beady blue eyes and glasses. He'd earned a bit of a reputation at Starfleet Academy. Apparently, he tampered with, hacked, communication devices, receiving a two-week suspension. When the sharpest technology and communications folks couldn't fix it, he was asked to come back (before his suspension was up) and restore it. It also earned him a nickname of X. Jon decided not to tip his hand on this knowledge. The kid deserved a little mystery.

The security officer was a woman – Commander Rita Hayes – with long red hair and deep brown eyes, Archer wondered if she was named after the actress from the 20th century. He'd read she served on the Columbia until two years ago, one of the ones he'd recommended to Erika years ago. Coming aboard Potomac was a promotion, and it turned out in the end, a life saver.

The engineer was a familiar face.

"Commander Kelby?" Archer asked.

Although the young man wasn't so young and had gained a little weight, there was a maturity about him that he hadn't achieved back on Enterprise. Sometimes Jon regretted promoting the guy; he wasn't sure why Trip had recommended him for the position. Then again, Starfleet promotions were sometimes given to people who didn't merit them.

"Pleased to see you again, sir," Kelby said.

"Same here."

"Nice to see you," he said awkwardly to T'Pol.

She returned the sentiment.

And last but not least, a 60-year old doctor who'd crossed his arms, as if he hated ceremonies, waited to be introduced. The man had a full head of wild, white hair, almost like pictures of Albert Einstein, and gray eyes.

The reports on him were wide and varied. People loved him or they hated him. During the triage people loved him. When he was transferred aboard the Lexington, people hated him. Here he seemed to be doing all right.

"Chief Medical Officer Ralph Higgins. People call me Higs."

Archer stuffed his hand in Ralph's. "Read that you served in a triage center in Brazil after the Xindi attack."

The man stared him in the eye. "Damned scary times. The wounded there …." He paused, as if wishing to forget. "Since we're the saltiest dogs on this ship, I should let you know I got a case of whiskey with me. I like to have a snort off hours."

"So do I."

"Nice to meet you, Ambassador." He nodded to the Vulcan.

She nodded, as well as said a few pleasantries.

Captain Richards turned to Travis. "Want to show the admiral to his room, Lieutenant Mayweather?"

Travis grinned. "You bet."

"We'll see you at the party at 1700," the captain said.

Archer nodded and the two parted ways as he slung the bags over his shoulder – after fighting off Mayweather for them- as T'Pol walking at his side, holding Porthos' leash. The dog trotted along as if he belonged on the vessel.

He gave them a small tour, showing Archer where the Mess Hall was for the festivities, and continued to his room.

"I know it's none of my business ….," Travis started.

Archer gave T'Pol a quick glance. "T'Pol and I have a relationship, Travis."

The words delivered were meant as a period, to end a conversation.

Mayweather stopped, looked back at both of them, and continued forward as if too stunned to speak. After a few moment passed, he clarified his intentions.

"Sir, I was going to say it was none of my business about you accepting such a small room."

The admiral coughed. "I see. Well, I know Chris … err Captain Richards is running short on space and I didn't want to be a bother."

Travis nodded awkwardly.

There was silence until Travis stopped at the door he'd been aiming for and entered a code. Archer strode in, put his things down and then felt like there was more he had to say.

"T'Pol isn't staying with me in here … if that's what you were wondering."

"I was kinda wondering there for a minute," Travis said.

T'Pol watched the two humans become silent, and then she said a few things. "Does this concern you, Travis?"

"Kinda." Without staying to talk about it, he left the room and Archer's shoulders sagged.

"I'll see you at the reception tonight."

The man nodded and uneasily backed away from the room. "Sounds good, sir."

When the door slid shut, Archer turned to the Vulcan. "I think we succeeded in freaking him out."

"It appears it doesn't take much."

He laughed and then wrapped her into his arms. "The shuttle is scheduled to leave in less than thirty minutes."

T'Pol nodded, her chin then resting against her chest. "Yes."

An earnest smile overtook his face and she found herself reaching to his temples to meld with him one last time. It was brief, but enough to see how much they meant to each other and how deep the absence would be felt to each.

When they eventually broke apart, he patted Porthos on the head and walked her back to the shuttle. As they stood in front of it, he kissed her, briefly, goodbye. The last gesture between them was her fingers to his as she whispered to him.

"Live long and prosper."

"Peace and long life. I look forward to seeing you again."

She punched the door closed, before she'd needed to, hoping to stifle an emotional outburst from either of them. When the door closed, she sighed deep and low until the shuttle pilot cleared his throat and asked if she was ready to disembark. A single nod was her answer, and she flew back to Earth without bothering to look back at the Potomac. It pained her too deeply.

Meanwhile on the other side, Archer put his hand to the cold, steel framework that separated them and had the most peculiar thought overcome him.

"Ashau."

Maybe he'd heard T'Pol mention the word before; it sounded Vulcan.

Shaking the cobwebs from his mind, he scratched his head and decided he'd have to look that word up later, after the party. Rounding bend after bend, tying to remember exactly where the party was, he came upon Travis. The man didn't look his congenial self. He had a decided frown on his face and nursed an alcoholic beverage.

"T'Pol?" he asked.

Archer answered his friend head on. "Is our relationship _that_ unusual?"

"No." The helmsman shook his head. "What bothers me, sir, is she's not on this mission. Seeing the two of you together seemed like old times."

His chocolate eyes lit up as he continued. "A bunch of us on Enterprise used to think she was good luck. With her around, we always managed to get out of the hard scrapes."

Archer softened. "We did at that."

"We could use a little luck this time. I hear we're headed straight into Romulan territory."

Archer nodded.

"Then we could use a hell of a lot of luck."

Higs rounded the corner holding a bottle of whiskey. "Admiral! I decided to bring you a welcome to Potomac present. Mind you, being your doctor, I think you should take it easy on this."

"Then you'll have to give me a hand with it," Archer said, smiling.

"Hoped you'd say that. Travis said you used to carry some 30-year old Scotch with you."

Jon gave a grudging smile. "I did."

"Not _do_?" Higs asked.

Archer laughed. "No."

Higs shrugged. "Well, you better get in the Mess Hall, you got a heap of people waiting to greet you."

As the doctor headed forward, toward the room, Archer took Travis' arm.

"Everything will be okay … even without T'Pol."

"Yes, sir."

He nodded, as if to convince himself those words were true.

--

A/N:

For those who miss Shran and Gral, no fear! More of them next chapter.

For those who want more action with the Romulans (finally), no fear! More of that next chapter.

For those who think, "God, no more romance!" We'll take a break after this chapter. Seems like that plot point deserved to be wrapped up.

For those who think, "Oh no! No more romance!" We're taking a break. They'll be more later. Just not the kind you expect.

If I've missed anyone, let me know.


	24. Chapter 24

A/N: Thanks to all those who've reviewed this story, nudging me to continue. It was always the intention, but I didn't expect the gap between the last chapter and this one to be so long. So sorry!

--

Admiral Archer looked out the porthole in his cramped quarters, watching the stars whiz by sub-light. This was his favorite part of being on a ship – the serenity as the wondrous universe passed by. Even when Enterprise was retired, there was so much more to see - more stars, more worlds. He'd made a personal list of planets and cultures he wanted to encounter like the fire-eaters of Taron VI, where the people could literally lick flames thanks to their physiology, and the water dancers of Sati.

This voyage wasn't about seeking out new worlds or new civilizations; this mission was about war.

Two constitution class vessels had already engaged the Romulans – both were destroyed within a matter of minutes. The Vulcans, the Tellarites and the Andorians all lost ships, too, and quickly to the enemies – the Romulans, Orions and Arali.

_We've probably lost more by now._

Taking a deep breath, he sipped at his scotch. Two months had gone by, coordinating with admirals and captains of other vessels until finally everything had been arranged, troops had been assigned and a destination had been given. Orders at long last came yesterday to gather the fleet of human, Andorian, Tellarite and Vulcan ships and head into Romulan space in hopes of finding the aides, like Staron (T'Pol's assistant) and diplomats who were lost less than three months ago. The rendezvous was scheduled in two days.

The crew was a little jumpy from the waiting and Captain Chris Richards, despite being a good commander, hadn't gotten used to having a superior on board with the ability to see his style in action. Archer continued to bite his tongue to keep from providing advice, but old habits were difficult for a man like him to break; and he constantly had to remind himself that his role here on the ship was strictly as commander of the fleet. This was _Richards' _ship.

_Maybe that's what's been giving me headaches._

His hand rubbed his temples and he thought about the look on Richards' face when he told them the orders presented from Admiral Gardner.

Just as he was about to find some headache medicine, the door chimed.

"Come in," said Archer.

A young black man with a smile whiter than porcelain sauntered in: Travis Mayweather. Immediately Porthos greeted him.

Travis cut the small talk and got straight to matters. "There's uh … rumblings around the crew that we got new orders."

"What did you hear?"

"Xavier said Admiral Gardner contacted you."

_I'm going to have to talk with the Communications officer about confidentiality. _Archer sighed and pointed to a chair in his room, which Travis immediately took.

"He did," said Jon.

"Crew's getting antsy. Been out here for a month and not even a minor skirmish so far."

"I know."

"I tried to tell them they didn't want a fight, but … this is the first real war for a lot of them. Most of them were teens when the Xindi attacked Earth."

Archer gave a nod and closed in on his old helmsman. "I know." A hand reached to the man's shoulder.

"Can you discuss the orders?" asked Travis.

"Not yet. You'll know soon … and you _can _pass that around the ship."

"Thanks, Admiral."

Jon smiled. "You know, we've known each other a long time. Maybe off duty you could call me Jonathan or Jon. Wouldn't make me feel so old."

"Sure thing."

"Good."

Travis got up and headed for the door. Before he jabbed his finger on the button to let himself out, he turned his head slightly.

"Jon, some of the guys are getting together for a basketball game tomorrow night around 1900. If you're interested--"

A grin spread over his lips. Travis was a decent basketball player – no Phlox – but still better than most. The smile increased, despite wondering whether it was such a good idea. Being a military commander was his job, not getting to know the crew and fitting in.

But, before he could think more on the matter he spoke up. "I'd like that."

"Good," said Travis. "See ya there."

When the Helmsman left, Archer pushed his hand across his forehead and sighed. _Time for another analgesic. _When he got to his medicine cabinet, he saw only two more vials.

_Better slow down, don't want Dr. Higgins thinking I'm a drug addict._

Shooting the medicine into his neck, he gave a slow sigh and felt a slight tingling at the base of his skull.

_Better._

Grabbing a book, he stretched out onto his bed and let his dog cuddle beside him. He knew soon, in two days, this would be a luxury he wouldn't have. There was something else he wouldn't be able to do in two days – contact T'Pol. They'd be traveling in communications silence. Putting down his book, he leaned forward to his monitor and nudged a button as the ship rocked violently causing Porthos to yelp and Archer to jump to his feet. In days gone by he would've demanded a report; now, he'd have to wait until someone contacted him. As he hung by the comm, knowing that call would come, he heard Captain Richards' voice.

"Admiral, maybe you should get to the Situation Room. We've got company."

"What is it?"

"Orion ships. And it looks like they took care of the T'Ran."

The T'Ran was a Vulcan ship, one that Captain Venek commanded and had for some time. Archer's head bowed in memory and a frown worked over his face.

_That ship wasn't scheduled to meet us for two days with the rest of the fleet. _"On my way," he said.

As quickly as possible, he slipped into his uniform and headed for the area directly behind the Bridge.

---

Sitting at her desk, T'Pol watched the rain cascade down her window, lulling a gray city to sleep. Sunday afternoon. It was the wet season in San Francisco, the bone-chilling kind that pleased Andorians because it reminded them of their icy home – not a welcome climate to a desert-loving Vulcan.

_December._

She'd been sitting in her seat for a few hours, typing up a response to T'Pau without making any headway. Her fingers remained frozen above her keys as she read the minister's words again: "The pride of the Vulcan fleet, the T'Ran, has been destroyed. We have yet to hear from the Plomah or the Aran'na."

_Captain Venek, a respectable man. His death is a significant loss to the Vulcan people._

The ships listed by T'Pau were ones she knew had been assigned to Admiral Jonathan Archer, and it inferred the entire fleet had been or was under attack.

If the Vulcan didn't know better, she'd say her heart felt heavy.

_I am a creature of reason. And my heart has no emotion._

It didn't stop her from looking at a picture on her desk for the fifth time in the past ten minutes, one that Jonathan had given her more than a year ago. The silver frame held some of the Enterprise crew – the Bridge personnel, Commander Tucker and Dr. Phlox – taken after they entered the Expanse. It was a photo Starfleet asked for – a publicity shot they could send to the media, they said.

Gazing at it, she noticed the lines of Reed's face and the way he leaned into Ensign Sato without touching her … without breaking protocol. She saw Travis' calm determination and the boyish vigor fade. Phlox, the only mark of joy, presented an over-extended smile; her friend could grin in the most challenging of circumstances. Her eyes darted to Trip who put his weight against the railing as if he used it to support him - devastated about Elizabeth, heart-broken about his home state. And then her eyes stopped on Jonathan's face: resolute, as if he would never know defeat, no matter how inexperienced he was as a _military _commander.

It had been so many years ago and the memory – the desperation – still lived in her mind.

A beep rattled her from her musings, and hope filled her brain.

_Is he still alive? Has he contacted me? _

When bringing up the image on the monitor, she was surprised to see Phlox. Instead of providing a smile, his hair was nearly standing on end as if he'd toiled for days without rest.

"Doctor," she said, "this is unexpected."

"I hope I didn't disturb you."

"No." She waited, too patiently.

"Good. Gral--" he said.

"Yes?" she said.

"He's awake."

A grin threatened to spill onto her lips. "Awake?"

"Awake enough to argue with a nurse."

"Have you notified Shran?"

"He was the first one I called. He's on his way."

"Then, perhaps, this would be a good time to visit the ambassador?"

"I'm sure he'd like the company. Although, maybe only an hour or so – he still needs to rest."

T'Pol ended the call and quickly prepared to make a short journey to the ICU.

_Jonathan cannot be dead. _

She would welcome the distraction of seeing her friends and remain optimistic about Jonathan and the Potomac. Tracing the mouth of the man in the picture, her former commander, she spoke illogically to the picture.

"Be careful, ashaya."

----

Shran beamed as the little Tellarite blinked two beady red orbs at the people staring at him expectantly. Snuggled into a bed that was two-times his size with white sheets draped over him, T'Pol thought he looked almost like a child.

And although his coloring was tan, not the usual brownish-red, his face still bore trauma and he was much thinner than before, his fang-like teeth gave way into a smile.

"Your friends are here," said Phlox. When Gral didn't respond, he spoke again. "You do remember Shran and T'Pol, don't you?"

"Of course! Of course!" grunted Gral. Annoyance resounded in his voice. "I'm not an idiot."

Shran mumbled something under his breath as T'Pol shook her head.

Gral continued, pointing at Phlox. "What I want to know, and what no one has told me, is why the devil I'm here!"

The doctor sighed. "There was an explosion in the Council room, and you sustained serious damage."

"An explosion? How many people were hurt?"

Shran grabbed onto his friend's forearm. "Many," he said. The Andorian's voice shook slightly. "Your aide Kar, Sera and Kator are among the honored dead. The final count, according to Captain Reed is 64."

"Then I grieve for them," said Gral. "What tragic news."

There was a moment of silence, and then the little pig-man looked up swiftly at T'Pol. "Where is Archer? Is he among the dead?"

_I hope not. _T'Pol said, "No. Currently he is on the Potomac serving at the front. While you were unconscious, Vulcan, Andoria, Tellar and Earth succeeded in declaring war with the Romulans, Arali and Orions. Starfleet sent several ships to engage the enemy. Jonathan is on one of them."

"Tarnok!" Gral frowned. "Is it all bad news?"

The blue man said, "No. They promoted T'Pol to president in your absence."

"Congratulations, Skinny."

Shran said, "And she had the antennae to contact the Klingons."

"The Klingons?"

T'Pol poked up an eyebrow. "There are reasonable Klingons in the galaxy. Besides, there is an old Vulcan saying, those who are not your enemies are your allies."

Shran's antennae lurched forward and scowl covered his forehead. "Sounds like an Andorian saying to me."

"Have the Klingons agreed?" asked Gral.

"They are close," said T'Pol. "One is a personal friend. Kolos."

"Never heard of him," said Shran. "Only a Vulcan would have the patience."

Gral grunted as if to agree.

Shran said, "There is other news. Jhamel and I have finished building our nest and are ready for the Garnok-aran ceremony."

T'Pol knew it was a bizarre Andorian ritual where the parents spilled their blood over the nest of their unborn child to ensure strength and vitality. Although she knew Jhamel was more sensible than to believe that, she gathered that Shran's stubbornness won.

"And there is another item that may be of interest to you," said Shran. His eyes fled to T'Pol and a grin began to creep over his lips. "She and the Pink Skin …."

"You and Archer?" asked Gral.

T'Pol straightened. "Yes?"

"You two garrang-odong?" asked Gral.

She knew few Tellarite curses, but _this _she was well aware of, and she gathered Shran was as well; he chuckled under his breath. Pulling her robe around her, she stared the little man in the eye.

"Crude, but accurate."

Gral snorted and then squealed like a pig. As he opened his mouth, presumably to continue to tease her, it shut again when a little woman with two squinty black eyes, a long snout and a tubby body barreled through the door. Unlike Gral she had black hair, long lashes and wore ruby lipstick, as if she were human. T'Pol had met her many times before and knew her name by heart: Martog.

"My love," said Gral.

The woman gave a high-pitched squeal and put her hands around Gral's.

"Here are the peanut butter crackers you asked for," she said.

"The food here is enough to put a Tellarite back in a coma." Gral's smile broadened.

"I expected to find you here," said Martog to Shran and T'Pol. "It's good of you to come see Gral so often."

Gral's eyes lit up and she explained her comment. "They've seen you nearly every day since your accident more than two months ago."

"The hospital was on my way," said Shran.

The Tellarite remained quiet, a twinkle formed in his eye.

Shran waved, dismissing the gesture. "Let's not get all sentimental like a bunch of weepy human females."

"Blue has a point," said Gral.

They talked for more than an hour about the food in the hospital, which Gral noted was bland and lacked the taste of fresh kill, and the Council or lack there of. They spoke of many things that had happened since the blast – funerals, who had perished. The ambassador seemed eager to regain his title as president, but Phlox shook his head.

"You'll be here for another few weeks. Although you're awake now, your body needs time to heal. You almost didn't survive," said Phlox.

Shran pointed, his antennae lurching forward as he spoke. "It's sheer Tellarite stubbornness that's helped you live."

"And an excellent doctor," added Martog.

Phlox provided an overextended smile.

"Yes, I suppose that didn't hurt," said Gral.

The chuckling in the room gave way to romance as Gral and his wife rubbed snouts and began grunting. Shran skewed up one side of his face, in a gesture somewhere between admiration and disgust, and then leaned into T'Pol.

"Let's get out of here."

Phlox, all too interested in the Tellarite couple, received a sharp poke in the ribs from Shran as the Andorian and Vulcan made a quick exit. Within a few minutes the doctor met them outside.

"I have not yet seen a Tellarite mating ritual like that. I understood their species to be able to mate under nearly any circumstance, but --"

"Doctor," T'Pol said, hoping to be spared the details. "When will Gral be able to assume the presidency again?"

"No time soon. Gral's injuries are still quite severe. Perhaps he can begin light duties in two weeks, but right now he needs as much rest as possible."

"It is unfortunate," she said. "We need his assistance more than ever. There is a race I believe that could assist us and they've been allies with Tellar for ages."

"The Ithanites?" asked Shran. His lip curled at the mere mention, and T'Pol could understand why.

The race was like Earth's pygmies – small and vicious. Their skin shone brilliant copper and their eyes were blacker than the darkest caves of Vulcan. It had been documented that they ate the flesh of their brethren or enemies, cannibals, and bathed in that blood. The explorer Stok, a Vulcan, had recorded the midgets performed this ritual thinking they gained more power, and that power was of paramount importance to them.

Thinking about this race tearing into the flesh of others simply for power made her stomach turn.

_Barbaric._

Logic, reason and patience – characteristics admirable to a Vulcan - none of these traits could be found in a single Ithanite. Their culture stole from others to advance their own technology, gaining them the ability to shield their ships and achieve great speeds.

Although T'Pol wasn't certain of how the Tellarites and Ithanites allied, it had been said that the Tellarites and the Ithanites were related somehow; their bloodlines separated thousands upon thousands of years ago. It mattered little, the fact that the races were friendly was all that was important.

Andoria and Ithan were involved in a war that raged since the beginning of time. Their skirmishes these days were few, as if both races grew weary of the battles, but they had never declared peace.

"Yes," she said. "The Ithanites."

"Good Grendal, why would we want their help?"

"Because we are desperate for allies and they have technology that may assist us in the war."

"If we want the Ithanites, we _are_ desperate."

Phlox shook his head. "I would be remiss if I allowed Gral to work even for a few minutes. His blood pressure would--"

"Doctor, we have no choice. I doubt the Ithanites would listen to either of us," she said, nodding to Shran. "Besides, he will simply be talking."

"She's right, they would never listen to an Andorian, and I would rather be killed than speak to one. But she's also right when she says they have unsurpassed technology. We have spies that have indicated they've reached warp 11."

"I still don't think --" said Phlox.

T'Pol said, "If the Council has any hope of continuing and if the allies have any hope of winning the war, we must continue quickly."

"Come back tomorrow at least." Phlox frowned. "I'll have time to prepare a sedative for him to at least keep his heart rate slowed."

T'Pol nodded. "Very well."

Atypical, the doctor walked off without goodbyes as if to show his displeasure at the decision and T'Pol had to bow her head. These were difficult times, and if she'd had a choice in the matter, she wouldn't risk Gral's health. A small headache formed in the back of her eyes and she rubbed at her temples eager to ease it.

"He's just doing his job," said Shran. "Looking after Gral."

"I know."

"Frankly, I don't understand why you say we have to act so quickly."

"T'Pau told me today that the Vulcans lost the T'Ran."

"It was your best ship!"

"It _was_."

"When did you hear this?"

"Directly before coming here. I was responding to T'Pau when Phlox contacted me."

"Wait, wasn't the T'Ran assigned to Archer's fleet?"

"It was."

"Have you heard from the Pink Skin?"

"No."

TBC

A/N: Next chapters – space battles, Klingons and Ithanites!


	25. Chapter 25

Jonathan Archer took a deep breath and then another spin around the Situation Room - waiting. His new position didn't allow him to be on the Bridge, even when there was action, like now. Instead, he'd spent the past ten hours contacting captains to coordinate the fleet, moving some while ordering others to maintain their positions. Although it had been mostly successful, a few still hadn't made the rendezvous, which is why the firefight was growing more intense.

Worse, the T'Ran was floating in space, all of its crew dead even, even before the ships were scheduled to rendezvous at the coordinates they held now. Although the ship was scheduled to move under Archer's command, it hadn't officially done so and the admiral hadn't been given the chance to provide any orders to the Vulcan captain or crew. To his dismay, the ship didn't get so much as an opportunity to send a distress call, beaten quickly by the Orions they fought now.

Instead the T'Ran lay battered and defeated, its hull caved in and its bridge destroyed, on the edge of Romulan space like a cemetery marker.

_I won't let another ship be destroyed._

The Potomac shimmied and Archer heard the comm blare. Whirling behind him, he jabbed his thumb against the button at the communications console.

"Archer here."

"We've got two more Orion engage us. One off port, one off starboard. I'm having Mathers send you the coordinates now," said Captain Richards.

Jon nodded to no one in particular and crossed his arms when the data sped across a console in front of him. Although a chair was at the station, the admiral was intent on standing or pacing.

"Confirmed," said Archer. Turning to the only other person in the room – a young man from tactical, Ensign Arthur Westing - he repeated the coordinates to him.

"Aye," said Westing. The young man, roughly 26, hunched his thin body over a screen and typed the information in, repeating every number.

Within a few seconds the information displayed on the screen, much like the one Archer used to view Xindi data during his time in the Expanse, mapping out where every ship in the vicinity was located lighting green discs for the ten allied ships (including the Potomac), a gray dot for the T'Ran and thirteen large, red triangle vessels that closed in.

The floor shook again, the Potomac rebounding from another hit, and Archer felt the ship change its axis.

"Hold on," he said to Westing.

Both grabbed for the console before them, steadying themselves as the ship veered again. A stylus used rolled onto the floor and Westing covered his mouth for only a minute. Soon it became stable and the two looked up at the display.

"I wonder what's going on," said Westing.

_So do I! _thought Archer. The Orion vessels must've known Potomac was the flagship, as the barrage of fire continued unabated.

"Westing, Communicate to the Yorktown, Aran'na and Kirmat _again _to use pattern Charlie-Bravo-2. And communicate to Captain Vega in the Thames to break off her attack and help the Potomac. Won't do us any good if the flagship is destroyed."

Arthur's eyes widened as he nodded vigorously.

Archer heard the request go to the Andorians in the Kirmat, and then the captain of the vessel, Commander Tan, argue. Jon rolled his eyes. It'd been that way for the past ten hours. Anytime an order was given, cajoling, arguing and demanding was involved. The Tellarites hated to be told what to do, the Andorians seemed intent on doing whatever they pleased and the Vulcans responded to nearly every order with "your plan lacks logic."

_I don't know if I can take this campaign if it lasts a year._

Frustration leaked from Westing's voice when he tried to repeat the order to the Andorian commander, so Archer closed in on the comm. He slid a hand over Ensign Westing's shoulder, gently urging him out of the way, and then spoke sternly to Commander Tan.

"I don't give a damn what you think," Archer said. "I asked you to move your ship with the fleet, and I expect you to do it!"

The Andorian said, "We've engaged with the Orion ship we know attacked the Toltek, those dogs!"

With a little more venom in his voice, Archer spoke again. "They're going to attack a lot more of our vessels unless you help us."

There was silence, and the admiral used that to his advantage. "You're afraid?"

"Afraid? An Imperial Guardsman has no fear! We'll do as you ask," said Commander Tan. The connection was closed and Archer swiped his hand over his face.

"They're driving me crazy," said Westing. "Errr, sir."

"Me, too."

And then the two harried back into their frenzied pace.

The ship shook again and a new volley of communiqués on coordinates came through. The screen displayed more green dots descending on the lead Orion ship that attacked the Potomac, and Westing sighed in relief. The comm whirred again, and the tactical officer intercepted the message.

Westing relayed the final responses. "Yorktown and Ar'ala confim. Captain Vega has moved to 37.7.9."

The walls reverberated and Archer thought he distinctly heard metal shards flying against the hull.

_That's either good news or bad news._

Xavier Mathers voice came through to the Situation Room. "Sir, only one vessel left at port attacking us thanks to the Thames."

_Good news. _"Thanks, Mathers."

The display against the wall showed the new information and Archer ordered attack patterns, watching the red lights representing the enemy vanishing from sight. Sweat poured down his face as he and Westing continued to monitor the battle and provide orders directly to the commanders.

When the last two enemy vessels remained, Archer halted the attack and communicated surrender conditions. Of course, he did so ordering the fleet to withdraw slightly; Orions were known to prefer blowing up their own ships to surrendering. When the battle cruisers didn't detonate, he coordinated with a Vulcan ship, Ar'ala – the largest one in the fleet and the one with the most room, to transport the survivors.

It was only then, after that was successful, Archer breathed a sigh of relief.

He knew from personal experience that other vessels, Romulans, may lurk undetected – thanks to special technology that kept them hidden somehow and would be much more challenging than the Orions – armada or no.

Westing grabbed a padd and noted the information down as Archer checked in with captains in the fleet – the men in charge of the other vessels in the area. First, he contacted those from Starfleet – the Yorktown, Thames, and Endeavor. Then, he called the Vulcan captains of the Ar'ala, Tat'sahr and Plomah; Andorians – the Kirmat and Toltek; and the Tellarites – the Narg and Tuk.

The Narg and Toltek sustained heavy damage and needed assistance with repairs. Every ship had crewmen who'd died, and at each report of the casualties Archer grimaced. Being an admiral meant that hearing about death was more commonplace as he was responsible for more vessels than being a captain and having only one ship with just its crewmen to be concerned about.

_Thirty two lost_, he thought. A frown spread over his face and he closed his eyes. With a moment's rest, he realized his headache raged again, and he ordered Westing to his cabin to retrieve the last of his analgesic. The kid brought it back quickly and the admiral shot it into his neck hoping it would do the trick.

_I hope this lasts longer than the previous one._

After synchronizing additional engineers to the ships that needed them, he walked onto the Bridge. The sight around him caused his jaw to drop. Tactical was unmanned and charred as if the tactical officer, Rita Hayes, had been injured and Xavier Mathers had a small burn mark across his cheek as he reported the dead and wounded to the captain.

Richards, his top two buttons of his undershirt loosed, noted Archer, stood from his chair.

"Can I help you with something, Admiral?" asked Captain Chris Richards, stiffly.

"Wanted to check in on you. Everything okay?" he asked.

Another quick scan of the deck, with Mayweather turning in his chair – sweat trickling down his face – told him this was a tough battle, much more harrowing than the protected Situation Room let on.

_Hard to gauge a battle behind reinforced walls._

"Everything's fine, sir," said Richards.

"Rita all right?" asked Archer.

Richards frowned. "I haven't heard from Dr. Higgins."

"Let me know when you do." Archer sighed. "And, when you have a moment, I'd like to speak with you."

"Yes, sir."

"Thanks," he said.

And then he retreated back to the Situation Room and sent word ahead to Starfleet Central Command of the small victory using an encoded subspace channel.

----

T'Pol brought up an image on the monitor and provided the Vulcan greeting to it – it was a Klingon with white hair and beard, ridges creeping from his head to his nose. Even on-screen she could tell he was tall, with large shoulders, and yet lankier than most Klingon men.

It was the lawyer who represented Jonathan more than nine years ago for a trial against the Duras family, and the same man who'd spent one year on Rura Penthe because of his contempt for the Klingon penal system. She knew there was a bond between her former captain and this man, and she'd been counting on it for the past month or more, as she made sporadic communiqués urging him to join the Council.

"Kolos," she said.

His voice boomed and his smile, a face full of fangs, sprang up on the screen.

"T'Pol. Do Vulcans never give up?"

"Our race _is _known for its tenacity."

Chuckling, he agreed. "You are indeed. You call again about this movement for peace?"

Reminding him, she shook her head. "It is a council of planets, all unified against forces who threaten to destroy our planets."

"Yes, I remember. I still don't understand how this involves Qo'noS?"

"The Romulans could expand into your territory."

"Unlikely."

"Admiral Archer indicated you were a man who was trying to change your culture – to bring prominence to the other castes."

He scowled. "I am. Are you questioning my honor?"

"No, I'm merely suggesting this may be a way to do so."

"T'Pol, I want to bring my people peace. Involving them in a war that does not include us is madness … even if it leads to peace further down the road. As a Vulcan, can't you see the logic in that?"

"Many years ago, the humans fought a race of trans-dimensional beings. At the time, Vulcan argued protecting Earth was up to the humans, and only them. And yet during the conflict Enterprise discovered that these trans-dimensional beings would've destroyed the every galaxy to make the universe inhabitable for their race. Vulcan would've been destroyed." She took Kolos' momentary silence to continue. "Come to Earth and talk with us. I'm certain we could agree to a--"

"Klingons do not value men who turn tail and rush to negotiation. I do not want to disappoint you, but I have made up my mind on the matter: my decision is no."

T'Pol closed her eyes while Kolos spoke about honor, Rura Penthe and his people. The headache was building again, ringing in her ears like a tin can being beaten close to her jaw. Slowly, she opened her lids and watched the man on the other end.

"If you change your mind--" she said.

"I won't," he said.

"Then, peace and long life. I hope you succeed in your quest for peace."

"Being at peace … it is a life-long quest."

_It is at that, especially for a Klingon._

And then the screen faded to black. Standing, she grabbed her head and noted that her headaches had increased in severity and frequency. Making a beeline for the bathroom, she rummaged through her cabinet to find an analgesic and shot the medicine into her neck quickly. Almost immediately her brain tingled and the ringing muffled.

_Better._

She would have to curb the urge to shoot drugs into her system, even if they were harmless headache medicines. A new aide would be arriving in a few days, Skon, and he would know – as any Vulcan would – whether she was up to the challenge of leading the Council. Perhaps like Staron, he would notice her slips into emotion and berate her for them … as any other Vulcan would.

Crossing back to her computer, she continued her review of Skon's background and perched an eyebrow. He'd left a career as a mathematician to become a negotiator and diplomat. His bond mate had died only recently, a little more than a year ago.

Bringing up his picture, she gazed at Skon's face – young – maybe in his sixties, with black hair cut in the Vulcan fashion, showing off his strong features – a slim nose and thick jaw. His eyes shone in a hue few Vulcans had due to genetics – they were blue, like those of Surak.

_Azure like water, a rarity on Vulcan … like Trip's eyes._

"Although he is not so young, he is too new to being a diplomat and may hinder my ability to negotiate. T'Pau may have chosen unwisely."

Sitting back, she sipped at her tea and continued reading up on the young man.

---

Richards finally entered the Situation Room, his pallor whiter than normal and his uniform scuffed and marred with blood. Vacant, his eyes turned to the admiral's and wandered toward the opposite wall as if haunted.

"You wanted to see me, sir?" he asked.

_Oh my God. _"You okay?" Archer asked. A hand reached out to grip his shoulder. The battle had been over two hours ago, whatever caused crimson to spread over the man's chest must've been fresh.

Richards, unusual for him, sat down wearily without being asked by his commander and spoke with emotion in his voice. "You wanted to know about Rita? She died thirty minutes ago."

Archer hung his head against his chest. "I'm sorry, Chris."

"She was the best tactician …."

"I heard she was first of her class."

Chris nodded absently and then rubbed one thumb against the other, transfixed by the movement.

Chris said, "You ever think about … never mind."

Archer leaned against a table and urged on the captain. "Go ahead."

Shaking his head, his eyes fluttered as if holding back tears. "Not while on duty."

"You two were--?" asked Archer.

Chris looked up slowly. "No, I would never break the fraternization rules." And then he looked back down at his hands. "Doesn't mean I haven't thought about it. She's a beautiful woman, smart, funny …."

The admiral's lips turned down. "You wouldn't be the first captain who considered something like that."

"You and T'Pol?"

The admiral's cheek turned lopsided and he nudged the captain from his seat with a gentle punch.

"Let's take a walk," said Archer. "The news I want to talk with you about isn't urgent, and I could use a little air. Can you leave the Bridge for a few minutes?"

Chris nodded and the two slipped out of the Situation Room, left the Bridge and meandered over to the Mess Hall; there, Archer grabbed a cup of coffee and watched as Richards thudded into a chair.

Jon said, "You know, I have pictures of all my crew, but somehow only T'Pol's made it on board with me."

Archer sat opposite the captain and then stared into his coffee mug.

"T'Pol and I were never intimate while she served on Enterprise. I felt the same way you do." Closing his eyes, his mind imagined his fingers gliding over the lips of her photo – stroking his index finger along her wide mouth. "Our relationship was a recent development."

When he opened his eyes, Jon gave his direct report an awkward gaze, but Richards didn't notice. The captain was too busy staring at his lap to see his commander reminisce or look guilty for doing so.

Richards said, "You know I didn't even like Rita when she joined us? I was one of those people who didn't think we'd need military onboard."

"I know the feeling." Jon leaned forward. "What changed your mind?"

"She was good at her job. First week out of space dock we managed to run into some trouble – Orion pirates. Our engines were dead in the water after receiving a few blasts, but she managed to turn it around. Saved our butts."

Richards huffed a laugh and then continued. "I guess it was after that day we both had a mutual respect for each other."

Jon sipped his coffee, remembering his own difficulties with a haughty, Vulcan science officer the first few months, when Chris spoke again.

"Is it always this hard losing crewmen?" he asked.

Archer knew a lot about Chris Richards; after all he'd been his commander for a year. Richards had a spotless record as a man who hadn't lost a single person. Today, he'd lost six. With a clenched jaw, Jon remembered that feeling – losing one was hard enough, but losing 13 as he did in the Expanse – in one battle - was then more than he could bear. Even now, he felt his stomach tighten at the loss of life caused in this firefight.

"_Always_," confessed Archer.

"Stark, Rodriguez, Kadir ….. This was their first assignment."

"You know it wasn't your fault."

"I honestly don't know who's fault it is."

Jon took a sip of his drink and pointed out the window at the fleet. "Everyone here lost people, and I bet nearly every commander on every ship thinks it's his fault. As the admiral, I have the same thoughts going through my mind."

Richards looked up in surprise.

"Chris, this mission is only going to get more challenging."

"I know."

Archer nodded and then gazed into the beverage below him – black, with deep brown swirling clouds. "This ship is leading the effort to retrieve the diplomats – Ambassador Simon, Aide Staron …."

"That's why we're entering Romulan space?"

"Yeah. I'd like to bring the captains together tomorrow and discuss the plan. Can you make the arrangements?"

"Sure."

"Good. Have Mathers there too in case we need translation."

"Yes, sir."

In the quiet, Archer watched Richards. "Go get cleaned up. I think either Commander Kelby or I could--"

"No, sir. This is _my _vessel."

The admiral leaned forward. "Don't push yourself. Take it from me, it's important to think about the issues you faced today and take your feelings into account."

"I'm the captain. I don't have time to face or feel issues."

Archer frowned, but didn't argue. With that, Chris got up and headed out the door – haunted and broken.

Jon shook his head and took off for the Situation Room. There was much work to be done before he convened the commanders of the ships and relayed orders. There were lists to summarize and check-ins to perform, asking for time necessary to repair ships. Westing and Jon spent the rest of the night and even into the morning doing so, neglecting sleep and food.

Into the wee hours of the morning, the admiral broke down and asked for additional headache meds, ignoring the furrowed brows from Westing.

-----

A doorbell brought T'Pol to consciousness and she looked at the time. It was much later than she expected – after 1100 hours. With a near-frown, she thought that her body was tired, more tired than it should've been, as if she'd neglected food and rest.

The chime rang again, and she walked briskly through her apartment to answer it.

Shran was on the other side, tapping his foot impatiently waiting for entry. Only for a moment did T'Pol consider keeping the door closed; no doubt the Andorian would only make her headache worse.

He rang the doorbell again and she opened the door.

"I have news from the front," he said. Pointing he said, "You're still in your robe."

"I just awoke."

"It's nearly noon. I thought Vulcans were more industrious than lazing in bed all day."

The Andorian pushed his way into her apartment and sat at the table in her kitchen while she glared at him.

"I am aware of the time." Following, she sat across from him at the table. "Why didn't you comm me?"

Shran's antennae drooped a little. "Jhamel is having a … baby shower with a bunch of human females, and I was not invited. I needed to leave the house. Can you believe that? Kicked out of my own dwelling."

"How can they shower a baby if Jhamel has not yet given birth?" she asked.

"No, this involves presents. Miranda organized it and invited some of our neighbors and the other parents of children at the school. Come to think of it, I'm surprised you weren't invited; I know how much Jhamel likes you."

"I am fond of Jhamel as well. Perhaps it was an oversight."

A smile suddenly passed over Shran's face. "I've heard of human female jealousy. Maybe Miranda took it poorly that you ended up tyla-tora with Archer."

There was a time when T'Pol believed the red-haired woman would've been a more suitable mate to Jonathan, and a small part of her grinned internally that the relationship between the two never came to pass.

"Perhaps." Pointedly, the Vulcan asked about the front. "You said you have news?"

"Commander Ranol from the Toltek communicated via subspace to General Krag. They are in Romulan space, and I believe they are heading to the planet where the diplomats evacuated to."

"In Romulan space?"

He told her the highlights of the battle and then went on to discuss the damage.

"The Andorians lost ten crewmen."

"I grieve with thee." _No doubt there will be many more._

"I do as well. But, it is not dire yet and those that gave their lives are considered heroes. Their blood will adorn the ice of Andoria."

She pondered how many Vulcans had died and whether their katras could be taken to the Great Hall where priests and priestesses would watch over them.

Shran said, "It sounds like your mate is having difficulty commanding the fleet and the different species. Ranol talked about arguments breaking out."

_My mate? We did not leave it exactly on those terms, even if I'm unsure exactly _what_ he is. _T'Pol felt compelled to correct that notion. "Jonathan is--"

"Yes, he's stubborn. But, I can think of no better man to carry out these orders. The Andorians may bicker with him, but they respect him; they would not lay down their lives for many other humans."

"No, I was about to say--"

"Besides, it sounds like the Tellarites and Vulcans are giving him just as much trouble. Ranol told Krag your people question every move the Pink Skin makes."

"Questioning an order is not refusal. By offering different opinions and options, he may be better equipped to --"

"Bah!" he said, dismissing her comment. "You and I know the Vulcans better than that."

A sigh left her lips and with narrowed eyes, she realized her headache was back. This time, it was if she heard yelling – voices rumbling loudly with protest, and her countenance must've betrayed her. Shran suddenly stopped his tirade about the Vulcans and gazed at her with concern.

"You all right?" he asked.

"I'm fine."

"You don't look fine."

Standing, she made her way to her kitchen and started boiling water for tea. After taking out a few tealeaves and plopping them into her kettle, she decided to confide in the Andorian.

"I have been having … headaches."

"Headaches? I thought Vulcans didn't have headaches … or acknowledge pain for that matter."

Vulcans did have headaches, but they were rare. The last headache she'd had before the bout of recent ones, was in the Expanse – a consequence of kicking her addiction to trellium. Although, Shran _was _correct about acknowledging pain. Vulcan techniques had been used to minimize the pain – stimulation of pulse points and meditation, both of which had been exhausted, and why she now shot herself with analgesic on a daily basis … sometimes more than once a day.

"When did it begin?" he asked.

"I can't remember, perhaps a few months ago."

"This has been happening for months?" he asked.

"Yes."

"You should see a doctor." Then his antennae reeled. "On second thought, only see Phlox. I don't trust these _human _doctors."

"I don't need a doctor."

"Don't be obstinate."

Pouring two mugs of tea, she countered him. "It is not serious."

"The new president of the Federation has to be in good health. You've got to take care of yourself."

"I am in excellent health." Walking over with two porcelain cups, she shoved one into his hand and ignored the disgust that crossed his face. Finally, caving a little, she acquiesced. "If it becomes more serious, I will."

The furrow in his forehead told her that that promise didn't satisfy him, but he seemed to leave it alone. And before he got the opportunity to give her another round of grief about her decision, she brought up her conversation with the Klingon.

"Kolos is not budging."

"You contacted him again about joining us?"

"I did. He indicated if it did not involve Qo'noS, then he didn't want to be included."

The Andorian sighed, his antennae drooping. "It was a long shot."

"I have not heard from Gral about the Ithanites."

"I doubt those little copper savages would lift a metallic finger to help us."

Raising an eyebrow, she watched him squirm under it. He shifted gears as if hoping a change in conversation would alleviate the severity of her look.

"I'm getting a new aide. Her name is Tares."

"When does she arrive?"

"She comes within the week. And as for the she … I knew her back in ka-rek school when _she _was a _he_."

The Vulcan popped an eyebrow up. "I understood your species could change genders easily and that it was not uncommon."

"He was my friend. Seeing him with a new gender …. I'm not sure I'm ready. I always thought he was an alpha Andorian male, like me."

The eyebrow settled itself and she decided to confess the news about her aide. "I also have one that arrives. His name is Skon."

"Huh. Is this _Skon _married?"

She sat back. "No. His wife died recently."

"How old is your aide?"

"Early sixties. Why?"

"Early sixties? That seems old to be an aide."

"He was a mathematician before changing careers."

"I didn't know Vulcans changed careers."

As she was about to explain even her own change in interests, Shran spoke up.

"A single, male Vulcan about your age under your supervision. Sounds like a recipe for the Pink Skin to get a broken heart."

The Vulcan's lips fell flat and she shook her head. "Thy'lek, there is no need for you to suggest I must mate with everyone who crosses my path."

A grin swept across his face at what T'Pol guessed was the mention of his first name, but he remained resolute.

"I'm looking out for Archer's interests," he said.

_I'm sure._

Shran glanced over at a clock across the room and then back at the Vulcan. "I think the party is almost over. You _could _crash it with me, if you wanted."

"No thank you."

His antennae dropped. "Well, then maybe we can see Gral and convince him to contact the Ithanites. Beats sitting here and sipping tea that tastes like drek!"

As she was about to contradict him, providing the vast healing qualities of tea, especially the blend she made, he waved her off.

"Perhaps you should save your breath and get ready," he said. "I know you want the Council convened soon, too."

With that, she decided his proposal was logical and walked off to her bedroom to shower and change.

----

Archer grabbed the bridge of his nose as he listened to Commanders Tan, Moog and Stek all argue. Tan, the leader of the Andorians, was short with a white shock of hair, dark blue skin and red eyes. Occasionally, he made a point of stepping into Stek's personal space. Stek, a Vulcan with dark skin and hair, stared without reaction, adding a few quips - monotone. And in between was Moog, a short, plump Tellarite with a long snout who pointed up toward the other commanders and occasionally shoved Tan. Richards finally stood up, his voice weary and was joined immediately by Captain Vega – a slender woman with raven hair.

Surprisingly, Jon managed to muster more patience than he thought possible and found himself grappling to focus on the low pitched hum of the baseboards as he breathed deeply, counting backwards from 20 hoping the debate would die down.

When he reached number ten, he heard the argument reach a fevered pitch. Commander Tan gritted his teeth and turned to Stek with a snarl.

"If it wasn't for _your _people we wouldn't--"

Archer stood up and forced his palms against the conference table. _So much for counting. _"SHUT UP!"

The room instantly became quiet and he exhaled noisily. The throbbing behind his eyes intensified, but he ignored it.

"You weren't asked here to become friends, you were asked here to serve in battle. And if you can't manage to do so, I'll have to report this to your governments and ask for new vessels!"

Melanie Vega, captain of the Thames and a raven-haired woman in her early 40s smiled profusely – her eyes lighting up, when Archer shook his head at her, indicating it'd be best if she wiped it off her face.

"Asking my government to send a new ship to meet you is highly illogical. It would take approximately 2.4 weeks for a ring ship to--" began Stek.

A growl caught in Archer's throat, but he swallowed it. "If that ship is more likely to follow my orders, than waiting 2.4 weeks is worth it."

The Vulcan poked an eyebrow in his direction and Archer narrowed his eyes.

Moog nodded. "I agree with Archer. We are arguing like children – unschooled and without purpose. Admiral, the Tellarites will obey your orders."

Archer nodded, glad at least someone agreed with him.

Tan shot out of his seat. "Andoria cannot allow a snorting animal like the Tellarites to--"

It was then Archer reached one hand for the table while his other doggedly fled to his temples. For a moment, he could feel his heart stutter, missing its usual beat – as if the pace had quickened to arrhythmia, and the smell of boiling tealeaves found his nostrils. The instant he smelled the faint aroma of chamomile, he opened his eyes to everyone's stares.

"Admiral, are you all right?" asked Richards.

An unsteady smile crept over Archer's lips and he nodded his head. "Yeah." Standing up a little straighter, he countered their concern. "I'm just tired of this arguing. We're _supposed _to be a _unified _front."

Guilty, the humans in the room bowed their heads, Tan's lips curled into a frown and Moog's eyes darted elsewhere; it was only Stek who held his head high and without emotion.

"Commander Tan, Commander Stek, I'd like you to follow orders under Moog." He repeated his other orders. "I'd like Commanders Ranol, Tog and T'Nara to remain with the Potomac and Thames. As the leaders, I'd like you to convey these new orders to your people."

"The Toltek needs days of repair. Would it not make more sense for the--" said Stek.

Archer said, "The Toltek is fast, and it's the speed, frankly, we could use. I'd like them to carry the survivors we find. We have a better chance of getting them out that way."

"And you want me to remain at the edge of Romulan space?" asked Moog.

"Yes. We may need you, if it comes down to it."

"Then that's where I plan to be."

"Do you all understand your orders?" asked Archer.

There was silence, which he took as confirmation.

"Good. Dismissed."

When everyone filed out, Richards leading each captain to the transporter, Vega stayed behind. Tucking a piece of black hair behind her ear, she looked up at the Archer.

"Sir, I don't mean to intrude, but … well, Arthur is my sister's son and--"

"Ensign Westing is your nephew?" he asked.

She shrugged. "Yeah. He told me you've been having a lot of headaches."

"I'm fine. Nothing serious."

"Maybe you should get your doctor to take a look at you."

He nodded. "I will just as soon as --"

"Sir," she said, laying a hand on his bicep, "I think Chris and I can take care of everything for a few hours."

"I appreciate the offer, but--"

"Admiral, you look like you could use some sleep."

The admiral gazed down at the woman. Her face, much like T'Pol's, was heart-shaped with a pert nose and high cheekbones. Melanie Vega's lips were small though, and pouted at him, something the Vulcan he'd known for years would never do.

"I'm the admiral, missing a day's sleep is expected," he said, speaking over her protest, "but, I promise to catch up tonight and see Dr. Higgins soon, Captain."

Retracting her fingers, he noticed she watched him as he headed out the door.

----

As Shran and T'Pol hung in the background, out of sight, Gral held a PADD in his hand and stared at it and the little copper creature on the other end. It was a man he'd met only ten years ago, but someone who he shared a friendship with and had kept in touch with - on and off - ever since. Ki'ar, an Ithanite, was an ambassador for his people, which meant something altogether different to them. Ki'ar was usually called in to negotiate war tactics and protocols as well as report back on how fierce the enemy was. Rarely did Ki'ar actually negotiate treaties; Ithanites were friends with few races.

But, their odd behavior never bothered the people of Tellar. Although it turned Gral's stomach, he had to admire that the Ithanites ate the hearts of the fallen to honor those who went into battle … even their enemy. And though Gral never believed it gave the Ithanites power and vitality to do so, he accepted _they _found the process exhilarating.

Looking at the Ithanite now, Ki'ar had aged considerably – much more than Gral had - with white tufts of hair barely visible from underneath his fez hat. An animal skin, gray with spots, covered his wrinkled copper body. And when he smiled, something that reminded him of a grimace, rows of sharp, yellow teeth displayed.

"Gral," he said. His voice was shrill and immediately the Tellarite twitched his snout.

"Ki'ar!"

The little man crossed his arms. "You want something."

A frown spread over Gral's face and he inadvertently looked up at T'Pol and Shran – who were just out of range to be seen. He grunted as the Ithanite nodded, his eyes narrowing.

"You definitely want something," said Ki'ar.

"I call because Tellar needs Ithan's assistance. We need your help in--"

"No."

"I haven't told you what it is."

"I don't need to know."

"But--"

"No!"

Shran mumbled under his breath an Andorian curse and the Tellarite continued.

"Tellar is at war."

"I heard."

"Then you know we are looking for allies."

"I heard."

The Ithanites, in Gral's opinion, were quick to rush to judgment, were stubborn, egocentric and resolute. If he heard no, then there was little else that could be done. And yet, as a Tellarite, he enjoyed a challenge. Gral nuzzled into his bed, fluffing his pillow, and despite the sedative he'd been given, decided to use his sharpest debating skills.

"Ithan has always been an ally to Tellar. Are you telling me you've changed your position? You no longer wish to be our ally … even after the Battle of Te'ta?"

The copper creature with the fez hat shook his head, causing the red tassel on the end to sway violently, and grabbed at the animal skin that draped around him. "No."

Gral asked, "Then what are you saying? You no longer wish to repay us for our help?"

"No. We won't help the Vulcans and Andorians."

"You're not helping them, you're helping us."

"No."

"You don't like the Orions."

"We don't."

"And you have no great love for the Arali, who are responsible for the deaths of the crew aboard two of your ja'jem."

Ki'ar shrugged. "Yes. True."

"Then why will you not join us to defeat them?"

The man was silent.

Gral said, "When an ally asks you to join them, you do so. Isn't that what your Elder Ti'ki said before we helped you?"

A sigh huffed from Ki'ar's lips. "He did, but--"

"Then you will help us."

"No."

"Yes."

With that, Gral ended the transmission. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Skinny looking horrified and Shran disappointed.

"He'll call back," said Gral. "I'm using Fartog's principle of patience."

"A debating skill?" asked T'Pol.

"Yes. It seems to work with the lthanites."

"It seems we are where we were only a few months ago," said T'Pol.

Shran said, "Maybe I can try to contact those from Coridan again. I can remind them that _we _were the ones who liberated them from the Vulcan dargs," His eyes darted to the Vulcan's who's lip had curled minutely, and corrected his statement. "No offense."

An eyebrow was her only response and it tickled Gral's stomach to see it.

"Call those from Coridan again, then," said Gral. "It couldn't hurt. Skinny, do you have any other ideas?"

T'Pol was silent, her head bent.

"Another headache?" asked Shran.

"No," she said. Before Gral could ask more about it, she turned to the two of them. "Allow me to meditate on our situation."

Gral nodded as Shran was about to pitch a fuss. "Skinny, you are the president now – we can work with you."

The Vulcan wrapped her robe around her and then headed out the door.

"Something's wrong with her," said Shran. He pointed out the door with his finger and an antennae.

"She does not seem herself. You said there are headaches?"

"I'll bring her back here tomorrow. When I do, maybe we can ask Phlox to surreptitiously scan her."

"You are devious, Blue!"

A grin threatened to encompass the Andorian's face. "I _was _a member of the Imperial Guard."

-----

Archer confirmed the plan with Commander Moog from the comfort of his room. The vessels would enter Romulan space tomorrow, where no doubt another battle would break out. After that, the Tellarite would take some of the fleet and wait at the edge of Romulan space while a much smaller, faster group headed to the planets they believe held the diplomats.

Science Officer Donaldson was already using long-range scans to search for various bio-signs with no success as yet.

After finishing up the conversation with Moog, Jon laid on his bed, still dressed in his uniform, and looked at the clock trying to remember exactly how many hours he had to subtract in order to know what time it was in San Francisco.

_A little after midnight. Huh. I wonder if T'Pol is asleep._

Not that he could call her anyway. The ship was under communication silence with only priority subspace messages to their various governments allowed. He thought about breaking the rules a few times, mostly because he had the nagging feeling she was concerned about him, but in the end duty ruled.

Closing his eyes, hoping to catch a few winks, he felt his heart begin to pump more slowly and his breath grow long and deep.

_He was in T'Pol's apartment watching her meditate in her long, blue flowing robe pooled around her. The aroma of incense wafted through the air and he sucked it letting the smell – spicy and musky – fill his lungs. The scent was like patchouli or sandalwood. It was _her _smell. _

_Perched over a flame pot, candles flickering around her darkened room, her knees were pressed against a blue mat. The room black though it was, save for the candles, showcased the tiny lights of San Francisco twinkling in the background. _

God, I've missed her and this city, _he thought._

_Suddenly, she looked up as if noticing his presence for the first time. Strands of her hair tucked behind a pointed ear, she raised a brow as he smiled._

"_Jonathan?" she asked._

"_Hey," he said. _

_His arms spread wide as to accept her into them and yet she stared at him in disbelief, rooted to her spot. The grin beaming on his face began to fade and he eventually lowered his arms._

"_What's wrong?" he asked._

"_You shouldn't be here."_

"_Why not?" Finally, he threw a small frown. "I thought you'd be happy to see me." _

_Slowly, she pushed herself from the floor and on bare feet approached him cautiously. When she was within reach, his fingers – middle and index – touched her neck and chin, stroking the skin in the gesture of a Vulcan caress. A gasp left her lips and for a moment he felt the surprise as if it was his own. _

_"You don't want me here?" he asked. _

_"It's not that." She shook her head. "Through our mind melds, I thought this would be impossible."_

The comm whined and he reached over to slap the button, his voice groggy.

"Archer."

"Sir, there's a vessel that suddenly appeared out of nowhere – it has the markings of a bird on it and--" 

"I'll be right there."

He saw the red flashing light above the doorway and heard the initial sounds of alert spread through the ship. As he blinked, he noticed his headache had gone away and that the smell of incense from his dream still filled his lungs. The ship shuddered slightly and he saw another vessel appear from nowhere out of his portal window – a green one shimmering into existence.

He jumped from his bed and ran to the Situation Room.

_Romulans._

TBC

A/N: Just as an FYI, Skon is Sarek's father. Please let me know if all this stuff is confusing. I'm sure I could do a better job of laying it all out.


	26. Chapter 26

A/N: I occasionally read other authors who have their works accidentally deleted and always think, "Awwww, that's awful." After having fifteen pages erased, I can now say: I'm sorry for not being more sympathetic. It's really irritating.

Anyway, here's my second attempt.

Night's Darkness, I love Shran, too and I'm glad you're enjoying his interactions with T'Pol. I had planned on having a moment with Shran and Tares, but your enthusiasm made me devote more time to it. Thanks for the feedback.

ArafelSedai, as always, thank you. And, I loved Babylon 5 as well.

----

Before hitting the Situation Room, Archer stood on the Bridge looking at two more green vessels shimmering onto the view screen as Richards staggered. These ships were like hawks – giant wings spread out as if to sweep up prey, and a bulb at the head of the vessel that resembled a head of a bird. Painted on their undercarriage were wings and talons, making the vessels seem even more ferocious and alien.

Science Officer Donaldson pointed. "Where do they keep coming from?"

Rita's replacement at tactical said, "I don't know, but we got five vessels in total."

Archer took a deep breath. _Five of their ships against five of ours-- the Thames, Toltek, Ar'ala, Potomac and Tuk. Still doesn't seem like a fair fight. _"Donaldson, use the warp signature from the Romulan vessels and search in the vicinity _at all times_. We could use fewer surprises."

Behind him almost simultaneously, he heard Captain Richards give an order. "Mathers, jam their signal! We don't want them contacting backup or giving away our position."

And then a bolt of light flashed across the screen as the Tuk came under fire. Jon crossed the Bridge and leaned against the comm. "All ships, this is the Admiral, use attack pattern Zulu-Echo-Zulu."

Fanning out, each vessel began to engage – swarming around their lead ship ­– as the Potomac rocked against a barrage of armament.

"Now, they're focusing on our vessel," said the person at tactical.

"We must _look _like the flagship," said Richards.

"If this keeps up, we won't make it," said the man at tactical again.

A part of Archer nagged to stay on the Bridge, but he knew that wasn't his place and with some reluctance headed to the Situation Room. When the door opened Ensign Arthur Westing, anticipating his orders, spoke up.

"Sir, I have the battle on-screen."

Cameras from the Potomac showed the Thames trying to draw fire away from the Tuk, the Tuk maneuvering to show its less vulnerable side to the Romulans as the Toltek hung near the Potomac. Only the Ar'ala, a red ring-ship, looked successful, firing on the ship ahead of it.

Archer said, "Good. Could you--?"

"I have Commander Moog on alert, in case you need the fleet to rejoin us."

He would've smiled, if the situation hadn't been so dire; Westing was beginning to anticipate every order.

_Damned convenient._

Nodding, he punched in some information as reports came to the two of them on coordinates of the allies and the enemies. Green and red discs popped up on the console below them, one of the green ones, the allies, flashing under a heavy barrage.

"It's the Potomac," said Westing.

Archer jabbed his thumb against the button. "Chris, I'd like the Potomac to withdraw to coordinates--"

The ship rocked again and Archer hung on, trying to speak through the interruption. "I'd like to withdraw to coordinates 25.12.10."

"Yes, sir," said Richards.

As soon as the ship retreated slightly, Westing pointed at the screen in front of them.

"Sir!"

Every bird-like vessel made a beeline for the Potomac, circling like vultures, and the shuddering and shimmying worsened. Despite Archer's firm grip on the console, he found himself sprawled on the floor. Rebounding to his feet quickly, he notified Moog, leader of the Narg.

"Looks like we're going to need your help. I'd like you to leave the Romulan border and --"

Moog interrupted him. "Sir, there's an Orion armada here. We can't afford to break off now."

Archer narrowed his eyes and wondered if the Romulans knew their whereabouts and decided to keep two fronts occupied.

"How's the situation?" asked Jon.

Moog grunted. "We are barely holding our own."

Calling up the information about the Orions, he looked at their best speed and grimaced. The ships under Moog's control couldn't withdraw without being chased. And while the top speed for the allies was warp 9, the best speed for the Orion vessels was warp 10.

"Keep me posted," he said.

Another volley rocked the Potomac again, and Westing pointed to the flashing dot below: Potomac was still being hit hard. Nodding, Jon nudged the intercom.

"Chris, we need to fall further back--"

An explosion resounded, a cacophony of sound – metal shards, creaking steel and faint human cries emanated from the Bridge; Jon could hear it even behind the bulkheads. The ships' axis tilted as if the vessel was beginning to list, and suddenly his feet left the plating below as if the gravity plating was damaged. His hand flailed to grab the console and managed to barely grasp it.

"Captain Richards--" said Archer.

Wrapping his fingers more securely around the computer below him, he struggled to keep at least close to the board. With a few curses, Westing floated helplessly toward the ceiling and bounced against it gently.

"Captain Richards?" he asked again.

Static cracked over the line, and then Ensign Mathers voice came over the comm.

"Captain Richards is in Sickbay."

His breath stole for a second as he remembered the most senior officer on the Bridge.

"Mayweather in command?" asked Archer.

"Yes, sir," said Mayweather, cutting in.

"Status?" asked Archer.

"The Bridge has been compromised. We lost grav-plating and life support here. We're planning to evacuate and transfer control to Engineering."

"Any other part of the ship loose gravity?"

"No, sir."

"Then, belay that order, Lieutenant." His thumb slipped off the comm button and he flexed his biceps trying to get closer to the console as his feet dangled above his head. "Commander Kelby, full stop."

"Sir?" the chief engineer asked.

"Full stop. Go to emergency lighting only and drop life support in all areas."

"The Bridge only has two hours of air."

"You heard me, Commander. Let us drift."

There was quiet on the other end until a small voice answered back. "Yes, sir."

The Situation Room went black except for a red shaft of light falling over his features, the red and green discs on the computer below and the soft illumination of the screen. Westing, kicking his legs and using the breaststroke with his arms, swam back to his station, appearing at Archer's side.

Jon said, "Communicate to Vega, T'Nara, Tog and Ranol that we're adrift and confirm to call off the attack. Don't use an encrypted channel."

"What?" asked Westing.

When Archer turned to him, glaring, the ensign began relaying the orders. Within moments the volley of fire ended and there was quiet. Eyes on the screen, he noted all the Romulan ships hung suspended in air, as if waiting for further instruction.

"You mind telling me what's going on … _sir_?" asked Travis.

Archer could tell he sounded angry, and Jon couldn't blame him one bit – he'd usurped his command, but he didn't have time.

"Wait a minute," he said to Travis. It was his only answer.

Looking at the view screen, Archer saw the lead Romulan ship, the one that had taken the most damage, break off as if to investigate. It's hull looked dented and dinged, and the ship leaked coolant – a blue vapor spreading behind it. It meant that its engines had taken the brunt of the damage. Smiling, he saw the Thames just slightly off-port to those failing engines.

Nudging his thumb against the comm, he spoke quietly into it, ensuring he was using a secure channel.

"Melanie, ask your tactical to fire at the Romulan ship at coordinates--"

"I see it, sir."

"Good, on my mark."

And then Westing shook his head. "Sir, there's a lot of chatter on the channel. Our allies sound upset."

"Put it on speaker," said Archer.

"This is Commander Tog!" said the Tellarite. "What the blazes is happening?"

Westing's head turned, wondering whether he should answer and Archer shook his head.

"Admiral Archer, this is Commander T'Nara." Her voice though tranquil sounded icy. "Explain why we have called off the attack."

"I was on the line first, _Vulcan_," said Tog. "He will answer my question first!"

Ranol broke in. "Admiral, I hope you're not indicating we should surrender? I'd rather blow up my ship than give it to one those _Romulans_."

"Surrender may be the most logical decision. Although, I am not certain Romulans take prisoners --"

"Andorians will never be taken as prisoners!"

"You are then, more foolish than I would have supposed," said T'Nara.

"Fools? At least we're not cowards like you!"

"Oh, stop getting your antennae in a swirl," said Tog.

Archer lost track of the debate, turning his eyes back to the screen. The lead Romulan vessel crept just a little closer. Glancing at Westing, he relayed an order.

"Tell Potomac's tactical officer to put its weapons on the lead ship, firing at the big, gaping hole on its engines. On my mark."

"Yes, sir."

Archer pressed this thumb against the comm, releasing it to a non-secure channel, and finally broke in. "Sorry, we're having problems with communications."

"I thought you--" said Tog.

Archer continued, speaking over the Tellarite. "Yeah, you thought. Well, if you followed my orders, we wouldn't be in this mess! We're listing in space and--"

Tog took that particular comment with a great amount of anger. "You've got some nerve!" Grunting, he hurled a few curses into the intercom.

"I was warned by Stek you were illogical, Admiral," said T'Nara. "This entire operation has been doomed almost from the beginning. If you had--"

"Grendal! We've had enough of your Vulcan arrogance!" said Ranol. "He said his communications was down. And he's right about the Tellarites; they've bickered and argued at every order."

"Well, at least we follow them!" yelled Tog.

The squabble began again and Archer's knuckles turned white as he clenched them, staring at the screen. Finally when the lead ship had broken far enough away from the rest of the fleet, the other four ships further away - putting each of the Romulan ships in a precarious situation, Archer broke through.

"Mark!"

Potomac sputtered to life and sent a few shots to the engines of the lead Romulan ship as the Thames also fired, almost instantly destroying the vessel. Metal debris spilled out in all directions. Quickly, the Vulcan ring-ship turned on a nearby vessel to attack, and the battle resumed again with the advantage going to the allies.

"Westing, tell Kelby to restore life support. Mayweather," said Archer still floating over the comm, "thanks for your trust. You have command."

"Yes, sir."

Archer noted another Romulan ship was destroyed, thanks to the Ar'ala, and watched as the Andorians and Tellarites worked together to bombard a craft nearby that had its sights trained on the Vulcans.

Westing said, "Sir, Kelby's having difficulty restoring life support."

"Has he communicated it to Mayweather?"

"Yes, sir."

As if on cue, Mayweather's voice hovered overhead. "Sir, I understand we only have about an hour and forty minutes of air left up here."

"Are you going to evacuate?"

"We'll do so when we hit thirty minutes of air left. Kelby says we can transfer command in that time. What about you?"

There was a back-up bridge on the Potomac in Engineering, but there wasn't a back-up Situation Room.

"Westing, can you work with one of Kelby's men on seeing what they have in Engineering that may help?"

"Aye," he said.

Watching another Romulan vessel break apart, Archer sighed. If he wanted to, now might be the time to provide the surrender protocol; though, he knew the Romulans well enough to know they didn't surrender. Just as he was about to order the fleet back, the Potomac was blown back, knocking Archer and Westing against one wall and then another, floating. Struggling to get to an intercom, pushing off walls to get back to the console, he found himself yelling at no one in particular before he could get the order out.

"Get back!"

Luckily he heard a voice cut through. "This is Commander T'Nara, all vessels pull back."

Watching the screen, he saw the Vulcan vessel fly in between the Romulan ship and the Potomac, as if willing to take the bulk of the damage; the commander too must've known that it could mean the death of the Earth ship. Within seconds the Romulan vessel burst, throwing its hull and people into space and into the Ar'ala, which tore a gash along its side. The Vulcan ring ship scattered debris and bodies, causing the admiral to bow his head.

"Commander T'Nara?" he asked.

A voice shaken, with the slightest twinge of emotion answered. "We are gathering damage reports now."

"You saved the Potomac."

"It is only logical to protect the lead vessel."

Just as casualty information streamed in, Archer fell hard to the ground, wincing at the pain in his back and shoulder. He also noted on the way down, he cut his cheek as a drop of blood fell to the floor.

"Grav plating is online," said Kelby. "Life support is back as well."

"A little warning might help next time, Commander."

"Sorry, sir."

Grumbling he got to his feet and had Westing read out the numbers lost in this most recent battle, as well as damage to the ships. Ar'ala was dead in the water along with the Potomac. Tuk, Toltek and Thames took some damage, but were in the best condition.

Then Westing's jaw dropped and he trembled for a moment, his face white with horror.

"What is it?" When the young man took a deep breath, Archer found himself drawing closer. "Arthur?"

"Admiral, Captain Richards is dead."

-----

The call was placed in the middle of the night, what was afternoon on Andoria, and Shran groused as he left his bed, put on his clothes and made his way to pick up his new aide: Tares.

When he got to the shuttle bay at Starfleet, one located outside, he waited with his face tilted up to the cool rain; the drops felt good and it was nice to feel a hearty dampness. Looking up, he marveled at the thick clouds that threatened to hide the moon', blocking it occasionally from sight and preventing any stars to be seen.

In the dead of night, there were no shuttles to be seen – other than those that were grounded for the night - and he found himself tapping his foot, thinking he might ask one of the meandering humans when Tares might arrive.

Stuffing his hands across his chest impatiently, hoping to spot a pink skin that looked intelligent enough to help, he heard a soft voice behind him.

"Thy'lek?"

Turning he saw a tall, beautiful, snow-haired Andorian with medium blue skin and black eyes. Her antennae were standing at attention, stiff – just as his were – a sign of mutual attraction. Like Talas, she was fit and slender, as if born from a family of noble warriors. And yet, as lean and muscular as she was, Shran smiled that she was also curvy and that she wore dark blue lipstick as women on his planet did.

"Yes?" he asked.

A grin spread across her face and then just as suddenly Shran's antennae drooped.

"Tares?" he asked.

The Andorian nodded and as was expected of their culture when seeing a long-long friend, her antennae rubbed his. With a lopsided frown, he noticed his appendages stiffened again.

"When did you arrive?" he asked.

"An hour ago."

"I thought you were coming in twenty minutes?"

"We were early. I didn't mind waiting." Then accessing his appearance she pointed down at him. "I have missed you, my friend," she said. "You haven't changed a bit."

_Wish I could say the same!_

Picking up her bags, which wasn't customary, he slung them over his shoulder and pointed to his vehicle.

"I'm parked over there."

Unzipping her alabaster coat, she stared at the sky. "Only one moon. And warm …"

"And this is winter!" He shrugged as he'd seen Archer do so many times. "You'll get used to it. But, I doubt you'll need that coat."

She slipped out of it to reveal black leather stuck to her body and Shran's chin dropped. _Yes, curvier than I thought! _

The two made their way to transportation and while they walked, continued to chat.

"Who would've thought, hmm?" she asked.

_You're telling me._ "No."

"Me … serving as your aide."

"I certainly wouldn't have."

"I was hoping I'd see you again one day." Then a purring laugh, she asked, "How many years has it been?"

"70 or so."

She said, "When my family moved to Try'lah--"

He sighed, agreeing. When he was a boy, Tares was his best friend. The two spent most of their time together and even 70 years later, Shran missed that companionship.

"You stopped writing," he said.

"I had to," she said. "The change is difficult, and I knew it would make you uncomfortable."

He didn't respond, but instead packed her bags away in his shuttle and the two got into the vehicle.

Leaning in, she chuckled. "Remember the ice hole that you and I used to visit? How we'd swim nude so our parents didn't know we'd left our village."

Shran squirmed in his seat. "Yeah. I remember. But, that was a long time ago."

"I suppose," she said. And then with a twinkle in her eyes, she asked what he'd been waiting for. "Did you wonder if I was chan back then?"

Shran knew chan, androgynous males, who were able to change into females easily, some even longed for the metamorphosis. It made Shran accidentally swerve the shuttle pod before he righted his steering column. Tares growing up was every bit, in his mind, as masculine as he.

"No," he said.

"I knew I would change. I even think back then, I wanted to. If I had done so sooner, our night swims might've been more interesting."

Shran's antennae perked up and for only a second, he closed his eyes. Back on Andoria, chan who became shen – females - were some of the most alluring of his species. They had the poise, dominance and strength of a woman, yet had voracious sexual appetites like men. Shen had the advantage of knowing what would please a male, which only added to their appeal. Some of them looked androgynous, somewhere in between a male and female, but not Tares. Unlike some shen, her breasts were full and she had hips.

In the ice caves of his home planet during the Great Thaw that happened every year for one week, shens and chans were highly sought after; they'd help while away the time as Andorians waited for their planet to turn cool again. Shran had not had the good fortune to bed one, and it had been a long-held fantasy.

Without intention, he hunched closer to the wheel, gripping the steering column until his knuckles turned light blue.

_Think of Jhamel!_

Tares said, "I always knew you were thaan. You were so masculine."

Breathing deeply, the blue man kept his eyes trained ahead. Finally, he admitted to her his status.

"You should know I'm married, with one child and one on the way."

"I know." Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her still smiling.

_Why did I agree to let her stay in my house? _

----

It was good news for Archer to hear Moog won the battle against the Orions, suffering twenty losses and only one ship with heavy damage. He coordinated repairs with the Tellarite and the various ship commanders at the Romulan border, helping them receive everything they needed.

He also got a report about the Potomac and Ar'ala; they'd need five and three days, respectively, to be able to take the ships to warp. Luckily for the fleet Kelby and the chief engineer on the Ar'ala were some of the best, otherwise they'd be down at least a week.

_Why shouldn't Kelby be one of the best, he was trained by Trip._

Mayweather continued to assume temporary command of the vessel and Archer noticed the young man hardened almost immediately, as if he knew the weight of the burden. Gone was the young man's trademark over-eager smile.

When repair crews had been coordinated and assembled and ship's business seemed to get back on course, Archer made a long trek to Sickbay. The moment he entered, he spied Dr. Higgins standing in front of a drawn curtain, a frown plastered on the doctor's wrinkled face. Jon took a breath and nodded as the doctor pulled the veil back showing what used to be Chris Richards. This lifeless shell's blood and organs dangled from his face and was riddled with metal fragments.

"His skull was crushed by a fallen beam," said the doctor.

Though Jon's lips quivered for a second, he calmed the churning of his stomach and closed his eyes. As if Higs knew that sight would be bothersome, he closed the curtain again.

"He once told me when his time came, he wanted to die in the line of duty," said Higs.

"A lot of men and women died in the line of duty today. Ten aboard the Potomac, eight aboard the Ar'ala, five on the Tuk--"

"A lot more would've died if you hadn't pulled what you did." Archer's gaze turned toward his shoes as Higs continued. "I heard how you were able to turn it around."

"Well, if turning it around lost us in total 31 people--"

Higs shook his head. "Admiral, you have a reputation as being a real Boy Scout and a real son-of-a-bitch. You know which one is more true?"

Jon looked up for the first time, waiting.

Higs said, "They both are. Probably why you made it to admiral. Probably how you destroyed the Xindi weapon."

Sighing the admiral glanced over his shoulder. Six men and women lay in bio-beds behind him with various injuries and watched him, wide-eyed. Straightening a little he acknowledged them and then took the doctor's arm, walking to a more private portion of the medical facility.

"We can't afford a burial in space."

Higs frowned. "You want our captain in the morgue?"

"I _want _to eulogize Chris, Rita and the others, but we don't have a choice. The torpedo casing would be a buoy for the Romulans; they'd know we were here and the success of our mission would be compromised."

The doctor shook his head. "Bad for morale."

Archer agreed. "I know."

"What if we run out of space in the morgue? We don't have much room left."

"Maybe Thames, Ar'ala, Toltek or Tuk have room."

Higs crossed his arms and then eventually nodded. "I'll coordinate with their doctors."

"Good."

Before Archer could turn around, Higs spoke up. "Who you going to promote?"

"I don't know."

"Lt. Mayweather is a friend of yours?"

Archer confirmed it. "I was his captain for ten years."

"You know he's not ready. And we both know that Commander Kelby is needed in engineering."

He'd been wondering the same thing, but didn't reward the doctor's musings with any comment. Instead, he furrowed his brow and tossed a comment over his shoulder before heading back to the Situation Room.

"Make those calls and let me know what the other ships say."

----

Gral waited for the Ithanites to contact him, willing the PADD in his hands to beep. So far it wasn't working. Just as he was about to abandon Fartog's tactic of patience, the door opened. Immediately on entry, Shran shuffled in and T'Pol strolled in behind him. With a thud, the Andorian plopped down in the nearest seat and hung his head. The Tellarite used that as an opportunity to press the button and ask for Phlox to scan T'Pol as he and Shran discussed just the day before.

"What's wrong, Blue?" asked Gral, after he'd slyly notified the doctor.

T'Pol said, "He is concerned he is going to be … tyla-tora," tripping over the Andorian word, "with his aide."

Gral grunted. "You better not! Jhamel is nice. Deserves better than you."

"I know!" His antennae drooped. "I'm doomed!"

"I don't understand why it would be difficult for you to control yourself," said T'Pol.

"I'm not some Vulcan who mates every ten years or so only to have offspring! I'm an Andorian male. Thaan! My worth is based on my sexual prowess and potency."

T'Pol said, "I think your libido will survive."

"It may not. Since Jhamel entered her last semester of pregnancy, she will only let me mate with her once per day."

T'Pol coughed as Gral shook his head. The Tellarite said, "You'd think the Andorians would be less hot tempered if they garrang-odong all day."

Shran stood. "This is serious! The Aenar are different. They're … monogamous."

"May we discontinue discussing Andorian mating habits to address the Council?" asked T'Pol.

Gral ignored her. "Don't get your antennae twisted, Blue. Your wife will give birth to your larva soon enough and then you can continue your excessive mating."

"Working next to Tares everyday …. I think I should ask General Krag for a new aide – an ugly one who won't go through the change."

"Might be for the best. I had an assistant when I was newly married – beardless, muddy and slender. She was a seductress and wouldn't take no for an answer. I nearly --"

"Gentlemen," said T'Pol. "I came here to inquire about the Ithanites. Have they contacted you?"

"No," grunted Gral. "Blue, have you had a chance to contact Coridan?"

"Tares is doing that even as we speak. My contacts would not speak to me. I figured a female might change their mind."

T'Pol said, "I can contact the Xindi again, request they reconsider."

At that moment, Phlox entered. Smiling his extended grin, he waddled up to a PADD by Gral's bed and picked it up.

He said, "Sorry to interrupt."

The doctor eventually wandered behind T'Pol, as if needing to look at a machine behind her. Gral saw him instead remove a scanner and wave it behind her, collecting readings. The Tellarite decided to pick up the conversation and distract the Vulcan.

"What about the Aenar? Maybe they can be convinced to join us?" he asked.

Shran shook his head as T'Pol spoke up. "They are pacifists."

"So are the Vulcans," said Gral.

Shran said, "When my wife joined Enterprise to save her brother, she became an outcast. It's no use. The Aenar won't help us."

When a soft whirring noise was heard, T'Pol turned catching Phlox wielding a scanner. The Denobulan's shoulders sagged only mildly, as if regretting being found out. Before the Vulcan could ask, Phlox explained his actions.

"Gral indicated you had been having headaches and asked me to take a scan to determine what was wrong."

"Was there anything?" asked Shran.

"Not that I could tell. Maybe if T'Pol were to enter an imaging chamber, it may reveal more information."

T'Pol shook her head. "I have not had discomfort since last night before I meditated."

Phlox said, "It doesn't necessarily mean your condition has disappeared."

She blinked. "No. However, I feel … better." Her eyes found the clock across the room. "T'Pau informed me that my aide is arriving early."

"Don't try to squirm your way out of our care, Skinny."

The Vulcan poked an eyebrow into her forehead and let it hang there for a minute. Phlox interrupted the silence.

"You'll tell me if your symptoms return or get worse?" he asked.

"Of course."

With that, she left the room and upon her departure Shran grimaced.

"I think she's lying," he said.

Phlox was about to interrupt when Gral spoke over him. "I don't think she's lying. I think she _knows _what's wrong with her."

---

Jonathan Archer rolled his shoulders to ease the tension from the day. It'd been a long one. Science Officer Donaldson found various species' life signs on a nearby planet - with suspiciously no Romulan, Arali or Orion ships in the vicinity - on a Minshara-type with a lot of blue and green. It seemed like a good bet that the diplomats and crew from the Excelsior would be there. Unfortunately, they couldn't take the risk of trying even encrypted channels to contact them. Any chatter could put the fleet in danger, which meant only one ship could investigate safely if it approached cautiously using the planet's moon as shielding. And because of the damage done, it couldn't be the Potomac.

The Toltek was the fastest ship, but a heavy ship with shielding going in first would be helpful. That meant the Thames was the only choice.

At 0700 hours tomorrow, Archer would be ordering the Thames to orbit the planet and beam a small party down, one that he would be a part of. It meant that he should leave for that vessel by 0600. And that meant that he'd only have four hours of sleep.

Porthos grumbled, putting his head on his paws.

Archer leaned over and rubbed his dog's head. "I'll be back, boy. Don't worry."

Before heading for bed, he decided to touch base with Captain Vega. As if already asleep, she appeared on the monitor – her hair mussed and wearing a pink nightgown. Archer winced.

"Sorry to call so late, Melanie."

"It's all right, Admiral." Sitting down, she sat up straight. "What can I do for you?"

"I have the command list for Potomac with my recommendation of who should receive a field promotion to captain. I need an objective pair of eyes to look over it."

When she knitted her brow, he explained. "One of the men in line served on the Bridge with me for ten years, and the other served with my vessel for five under my chief engineer."

She nodded. "I'd be happy to look at it."

"Thanks. I asked your nephew to send you the coordinates for the planet. Your helmsman can plot the course. Best speed. I want to get in there and out quickly."

"Yes, sir."

He paused. "Morale okay over there?"

As if reeling off words from a brochure, she began to indicate the state of readiness. "The Thames is a good ship with one of the finest crews --"

"Be straight with me."

"All right." She sighed. "They're scared, sir. But, they know their jobs and they have confidence in you, especially the way you pulled off our last victory. They think you're a real--"

"Son-of-a-bitch or Boy Scout?"

"Is this a trick question?" The twinkle in her eyes put one in his.

"Thanks for your help today. I'll see you early tomorrow morning. Get some sleep. Archer out."

After ending the contact, he poured himself a glass of scotch, despite having already brushed his teeth, and sat on his bed. He could use something just to knock him out, at least for an hour so he wouldn't have dreams like he did in the Expanse – nightmares of death and visions of helplessness with a crew he couldn't protect.

Sipping his drink, he thought about the dream he had of T'Pol last night.

_It seemed so real. Maybe I'll get lucky and dream about her again. But, I hope this time she has the good graces to run into my arms._

A soft smile spread over his face and he turned to the picture by his bed.

_I could've used your help out there today,_ he thought. _And it wouldn't be too shabby having you here now with me._

Finishing the last of his glass, swallowing it in one gulp, he plunked it on the desk next to his bunk and let his eyes drift close for just a second when he heard a voice that sounded like the Vulcan's.

_Jonathan?_

It caused his eyes to flash open.

_T'Pol?_

----

T'Pol waited patiently for the Vulcan ring ship to arrive at Starfleet shuttle bay. When it finally did, creatures impetuous and eager to run off the ship headed out first – Earthers, Andorians, Tellarites, Denobulans ….. The last to de-board any shuttle were the Vulcans. Always. T'Pol considered it a universal constant.

Out of even all the Vulcans, Skon was dead last. She noticed him right away.

Regal, adorned in a robe that was the color of sand with an IDIC pin, he strolled from the ship and walked to her. His black hair was cut in perfect Vulcan fashion, without a single piece askew, and his eyes were piercing blue. In the picture she'd seen, she had imagined the hue of his eyes were the color of water, like Trip's. In person she realized his eye color appeared more like the shade of a wolf's – almost gray and iridescent. Like Jonathan, he had a dimpled chin and stood tall and confident; his lanky body looked as if it was also muscular. A tanned face, bronze and expressionless, held warmth.

If she were not Vulcan, she would've said he was strikingly handsome.

Opening her hand into a V, she greeted him.

"It is an honor to meet you, Skon."

"The honor is mine," he said, bowing his head.

"Do you have luggage?"

Nodding to the satchel on his shoulder, he told her. "I have one bag."

"You don't need more?"

"Not yet."

The two headed to her shuttle car and climbed in. Once in the air, T'Pol decided to broach the subject of his career changes, doing so straightforwardly as any of her species would.

"You were a mathematician, and a highly regarded one."

"Esteem is not important to me," he said.

"It is unusual to win such accolades when a subject no longer interests you."

"It is."

Tilting her head, she watched what humans referred to as body language. And then she asked, "Why did you choose to become a diplomat?"

He looked at her from the corner of his eyes; his face placid. "I have my reasons."

T'Pol was about to let the matter drop, when he placed his hands together and formed a temple with his fingers under his chin. A few minutes passed when he spoke again.

"My wife was a mathematician. After her death, I found I no longer wanted to continue in that profession. In addition, becoming an aide would allow me time away from Vulcan."

"You told this to T'Pau?"

"She knows of my reasons. The minister is my younger sibling."

_Nepotism? _wondered T'Pol.

Wanting to frown, she continued driving in silence until they were near the Sausalito headquarters. Skon looked at the building and then back at T'Pol.

"This is the location of Vulcan High Command? The compound?"

"It is," she said.

"I understood I would be staying in San Francisco."

"I assumed you would want to stay with other Vulcans."

"No."

"I did not secure lodgings for you in San Francisco," she said.

"Then, I would like to secure my own lodgings," he said. After a slight pause, he corrected the statement. "I meant no offense."

"No offense can be taken where emotion does not exist." Instead of continuing toward the compound, she made her way to her own apartment.

"You asked why I transferred to a diplomat – I was not complete with my answer. I wanted to _leave _Vulcan."

"Why?"

"I have visited few other planets and without my wife's bond …. It seemed Earth was available and you needed an aide." Staring out the window as if interested in the sights, he spoke quietly. "Why did you choose Earth?"

"Why did I join the Terrans to begin with?"

"Yes, and why did you return to Earth when your career aboard Enterprise was over?"

"I joined them because I believed I had something to learn from them. As for why I returned – many reasons. Perhaps the largest was familiarity."

The shuttle landed, the two walked into her apartment building, took the elevator and entered her home. She noticed he scanned the room with his eyes, and despite the number of human items in her abode didn't comment. Instead, he faced her.

"Do you know if this building has another apartment that I could occupy?"

"Perhaps."

"I find your home quite satisfactory."

T'Pol made a mental note of that, for a Vulcan it was effusive. As she was about to comment on the types of abodes available, her comm began beeping incessantly. Leaving his presence with a single nod, she walked to her bedroom and typed in a command. Shran's pale face filled her screen.

"I have news from the front!" he said. "Captain Richards is dead."

Her heart thumped in her chest for a moment. "Any others?"

"No news on others." Shran said, "I'm sure the Pink Skin is fine."

She closed her eyes briefly, feelings bubbled to the surface – fear – that needed suppression. Closing her eyes to push the emotion back, she imagined Jonathan settling in for the evening with a glass of scotch at his lips and Porthos at his feet. He looked weary, more exhausted than she'd seen him in the past six years … almost as tired as when he was in the Expanse. Much like those days, he wore a small cut on his right cheek.

Almost as if she could touch him, she reached out to take a strand of his hair between her fingers. It was more gray at the temples than she remembered.

_Jonathan?_

When his eyes flashed open, her stomach clenched and her eyes fluttered.

_T'Pol?_

"T'Pol? Are you listening, Vulcan?" said Shran. He was in the middle of a tirade about her not paying him attention when her focus jerked to the Andorian. Startled, she forced her body to sit – blinking quickly while staring behind the monitor.

And then he stopped his ramblings letting silence break for a moment before starting down a new conversation path.

"I knew it! Phlox should've taken you to the imaging chamber," said Shran. His antennae poked in her direction as if annoyed. "You are unwell."

"No," she said, more to herself.

"Yes, you are, but you're too obstinate to do anything about it."

"I was concerned about Jonathan, nothing more." Taking a deep breath, she exhaled slowly. "It caused emotion."

His eyes narrowed. "Did you pick up your aide, Score?"

"Skon. Yes," she said.

"So, what's he like?"

Shifting her eyes, she looked out her bedroom to see the Vulcan meandering around her living room as if trying not to listen to her conversation. Carefully, he picked up a book from the kitchen table, one that Jonathan loaned her, and he shot up a brow.

"He is Vulcan." Before Shran could respond, T'Pol spoke again. "Tares' meeting with the Coridan go well?"

"It's not a sure-thing, but it's promising. I'll have Tares provide a transcript of what was said."

"That is good news."

"And I'll keep you updated if I hear anything else from General Krag about the front."

"Thank you," she said.

"No problem. Now about this Stork who's with you--"

She turned off the screen, letting it fade to black and continued to stare at it long after the Andorian's image was gone.

Pushing herself from her seat, she walked to Skon. On her approach he held her book out.

"You enjoy Earth literature?"

"I do."

Nodding, he placed the book back on the table.

"I did not mean to eavesdrop, but--" he said.

"You could not help but overhear." She realized only too late that she sighed, but was relieved he did not comment on it as Staron may have. "I'm well. And if there was something physically wrong with me, I would tell you."

When he opened his mouth, she spoke over whatever he was about to say. "I know I may be more emotional than some Vulcans, but I do not believe it's wise to comment on my feelings in front of me."

Her arms folded across her chest and she waited for his response.

"I was merely going to ask if I could contact the owner of this building. _If_ something were to happen to you, it would be beneficial for me to be nearby."

A light frown threatened to spill over her face, but she held it at bay.

"And as for being emotional, Ambassador, my sister indicated you were the perfect Vulcan to represent our planet to Earth. She indicated you understand and can tolerate the humans better than anyone. That is a compliment she never bestowed on Soval."

"I apologize," she said.

"No offense is taken where there is no emotion."

_Perhaps he will be a better aide than I predicted. _"If you are available, I would like to take you to a restaurant I frequent. Chinese food."

"Chinese? Fascinating." An eyebrow quipped. "I will try to keep an open mind."

"Good."

As he made arrangements to live in the building, T'Pol wondered something more. _Perhaps he can more than an aide; maybe he will be a friend._

TBC


	27. Chapter 27

Archer arrived on the Thames in the morning to discuss getting to the planet to find the lost diplomats and crew of the Excelsior. His dreams were stranger than usual, which is why, ultimately, his hair was still wet; he woke up late and had to rush in the shower. Although it wasn't necessarily his best protocol, he figured he could let decorum slip in order to be on time. When Captain Vega greeted him at the airlock, a smile sprang onto her face and a snicker left her lips.

"What is it, Captain?" asked Archer.

"Uhm, sir --?" she said. With a pink nail, she pointed to his hair. "It's sticking up."

Running a hand over his hair to smooth it, she tittered aloud; obviously the problem worsened. Shooting his eyes toward his forehead, hoping to see the problem – which was impossible, she eventually offered assistance.

"May I?" she asked.

Her hand reached a little closer to him and then hesitated until he furrowed his brows together and gave a nod.

Carefully, reaching on her very tip toes as he bent his head, she smoothed down one of the many cowlicks he was unfortunate enough to have. He noticed it took a few tries and wondered just how bad it was.

"There," she said. "More respectable."

He gave her a lopsided grin. "I haven't been to the barber this month and the gray ones are wiry."

"Didn't want your image tarnished, Admiral. You're a legend."

"Legend?" _Legends are old. _"Thanks for the help."

The two beamed at each other and he noticed Melanie blush slightly and then straighten. Nudging two fingers in the air to follow her, she headed down the corridor walking at a quick tempo for a woman who was only 5'1", and he struggled to keep up.

"I figured we'd have breakfast and you could go over the plan, sir," she said.

Talking just as quickly as she spoke, she jumped from topic to topic, effervescently, and Jon realized it would be a chore to get a word in edgewise. The woman, he was starting to figure out, was a tiny bundle of energy.

As they rounded the last corner, the Mess Hall doors opened and she led him to the Captain's Mess where scrambled eggs with salsa, a glass of orange juice and a cup of coffee – black – waited for them.

Turning she said, "I hope you don't mind. I decided to order what I typically do. Makes it easier for Cook and I didn't want to bother you for details. If you want something else--"

"I ate this almost every day aboard Enterprise."

"Really? I never figured you for a salsa guy."

Shyly he confessed the truth. "Ex-girlfriend got me hooked. Used to drive Chef crazy; he would say, 'It's like putting ketchup on steak.'"

"Must not have been a big fan of meatloaf."

Archer smiled; meatloaf was his personal favorite.

"You wanted to know who I'd promote, sir?" she asked.

Waiting for her to sit, he eventually grabbed a seat and draped his napkin in his lap.

"I do," he said.

"I looked over Kelby's records. He doesn't have a lot of log time on the Bridge."

Archer reached for his coffee. "He has enough Bridge experience. Starfleet only requires 200 hours in the chair. Kelby has 240."

"Sir, I had 400 when I was promoted to captain. And Admiral Forrest, who gave me the nod, was upset I hadn't spent 500 hours in the chair. He told me he almost didn't promote me."

A twinkle sprang to his eye at the mention of his former mentor. Leaning in, he asked, "Well, who do you recommend?"

"You're not going to like it."

"Try me."

Retrieving a PADD from her unzipped pocket, as if prepared for the question, she typed in a few symbols and the entire command line for the fleet displayed. Then, she scooted in on the table toward him, a grin on her face. He didn't bother checking the name at the top.

"You chose Sub-commander Flagan from the Toltek, didn't you?" he asked.

Knitting her brows together, she picked up her PADD, staring at it in disbelief and then at him. "You knew?"

"It's who I chose. I told him last night he had command. He should be arriving on the Potomac any minute."

"Then why'd --?"

"I wanted to check my assumptions about you. I read in your file that you were an 'out of the box' thinker. And … I wanted to see how a human would react to the obvious skip in the line of command. Morale is important." Shoveling a fork into some of his eggs, he let them hang in mid-air. "You know, Kelby's the most qualified among the Earth vessels for the position."

"Kelby is one of the best engineers in the fleet."

"He's not happy about being passed up for promotion."

"Who is? But, earning the fourth bar isn't about ego, sir. It's about readiness."

There was a time when he wouldn't have agreed with her, before he was captain. Being as an admiral he understood something more important; earning the fourth bar wasn't about readiness either – captains are never really _ready_.

Pointing with his fork, he let the comment go and told her the game plan.

"I'd like the Thames to orbit the planet long enough for a landing party to transport down. She should travel a safe distance away, back behind the moon."

"Who's in charge of this section of the fleet?" she asked.

"Commander T'Nara."

"She knows the plan?"

"Yes."

"Why you traveling with us, sir?"

"Melanie, the mission we're about to take won't just be difficult; it'll be impossible. I may need to step in."

A faint frown made it to her lips.

He said, "I need to know that if I step in, you won't have an ego that's ready to counteract my orders because they aren't your own."

Her brown eyes batted and then she took her orange juice in her hand. "I don't have an ego, sir. I don't need it. My crew has readiness."

_Oh, she has ego. She wouldn't be captain if she didn't. _Nodding, he switched the conversation. "I read last night that you grew up in New York?"

"Rochester."

"No kidding. Me, too. I went to Washington Elementary."

She smiled. "Kennedy."

It was the closest elementary near his. "Huh. Where'd you live?"

"323 Monroe," she said. "You?"

"365 Gladstone."

Monroe was within a mile and in biking distance of his house. Leaning forward, his elbows on the table, he placed his hands together.

"Small world."

"You been back lately?" she asked.

"No, not in years."

"I was there just a few months ago visiting relatives. The farm on 42nd has been replaced by – get this – a mall."

"No!"

"It's true. My niece - she's a teenager ­­- shops there all the time."

He shook his head. "That's a shame. I remember the farmer there, Mr. Jacobs --"

"He'd hand out fresh corn!"

"Now, that's just spooky."

"You didn't know Jeffrey Jacobs, did you?"

He shook his head. "No."

The good humor died down. "It was Mr. Jacobs son and my first boyfriend. My first kiss was in the old white barn there. You know – the one near the road."

A grin lit up his face imaging this woman as a girl with raven pigtails and overalls. Strangely, she kept his gaze for a moment, beaming under it, and he realized his meal was already getting cold and they hadn't discussed the plans.

He sighed. "Listen, Melanie, I should probably--"

"Admiral, my name's not Melanie. Well, technically it's Melanie, but no one ever calls me that, except my mother when I'm in trouble."

Wincing, because he'd been calling her that nearly ever since he met her, he waited.

"Mel," she said.

"Sorry, _Mel_," he repeated.

"It's all right."

With that behind him, he took out a PADD of his own – handing it to her – and began to describe the mission in more detail with the complex plans they needed to fulfill in order to pull it off successfully.

---

T'Pol awoke, a little bleary eyed and rubbed out the slumber. The dreams she'd had last night were intense and vivid, even though she'd meditated the night before – thoroughly.

Refraining from examining the memory, too disturbed to review it, she put her feet on the floor and grabbed her robe at the end of her bed. When she walked out, she saw Skon meditating quietly in the living room – his legs and arms folded on a mat.

His eyebrow shot up and he opened his eyes slowly. "I believe the humans say, 'Good morning.'"

"They do," she said. "Good morning."

The light in his eye gleamed and he stood, swiftly in one motion – despite the heavy robe that draped around him – graceful as a cat.

She said, "They also ask – did you sleep well?"

He pointed to the floor and the pillows in her living room where he'd stayed that night. "It was comfortable. And you?"

"My sleep was … satisfactory." Nodding at the sunrise breaking – streaming orange across a purple sky and the twinkling lights of the city vanishing, she turned to him. "I must admit dawn and twilight are my favorite moments of the day."

Giving a few bobs of his head, he agreed. "Vulcan does not have sunsets or sunrises quite like Earth."

It was more than that – a stillness that came over the Earth, briefly, for those moments.

After the two gazed out the window for a few minutes, Skon finally spoke. "Ambassador, I do not wish to become burdensome, however, I wanted to discuss a gathering place for the Council."

"Seems futile to have a meeting room without participants."

"There is you, Ambassador Shran, his aide and myself. Gral has access to a video PADD. In addition, you are currently attempting to secure new members."

"Your suggestion?"

"I would like to make that my first task as your assistant."

Crossing to the kitchen, she began brewing tea. "Shouldn't your first task be to obtain an apartment for yourself?"

"I have already attended to that. This morning I contacted your … _landlady?_"

T'Pol looked at the clock and realized Skon called Mrs. Williams before six a.m. "Yes, _landlady _is the correct word, but … you shouldn't contact humans before nine in the morning."

An eyebrow wandered up at her statement. "Why?"

"Humans typically sleep on Saturdays."

"I thought it was a myth that humans slept ten hours a day."

"Even if they aren't resting, it's rude."

"I will endeavor not to repeat that mistake."

T'Pol wanted to smile. "Good."

He said, "The woman indicated there was an apartment on this floor available. With your permission, I would like to rent it."

"Of course." She shook her head. "But, you needn't ask my permission."

"Thank you," he said. She noted he stood watching the window for several minutes, as if admiring San Francisco's bay. "They have an abundance of water here. I was not prepared for that."

Pouring two white porcelain cups full of chamomile tea, she headed to him and offered one. After his first sip, he stared down at the contents with confusion.

She said, "It's called chamomile."

"Interesting."

"You said you'd try and keep an open mind."

Taking another sip, he agreed. "I did."

"Are you beginning to regret your decision to come to Earth?"

"No."

Gazing out the window, thinking about the first time she saw the bay, she nearly sighed. "It was difficult for me too when I arrived."

_It's been difficult nearly every time_, she thought, remembering arriving several months ago to become Vulcan's ambassador. It wasn't an easy transition then, either.

After having failed the Kolinahr, when she couldn't pass the second step of enlightenment because she'd missed - an emotion - Earth and her Enterprise companions, she'd decided to accept a position working with the humans frequently. Whether it had been the trellium or Trip's death that caused her mind's unrest – she couldn't be sure. But, even in hr turmoil she knew she would be able to seek solace with her former captain; they had a close friendship for years. Although she hadn't intended on starting a relationship with him when she arrived, she remembered his arms wrapped tightly around her, his smile and rough cheek rubbing against her face and his purring laughter wandering to her ear.

She'd liked the feel of it even then.

Taking the cup of tea to her lips again, she realized Skon was speaking to her.

"Ambassador?" he asked.

"I was lost in thought." And then at his confused expression, she corrected herself. "Your argument has merit; I'd like you to find a place for the Council to meet temporarily. But, I can think of no better permanent location than across from Starfleet headquarters. If you could pursue that as well--"

"Of course," he said, bowing his head slightly. "May I use your computer?"

"You'll wait to contact humans after nine, won't you?"

A smile lit in his eyes. "I will only investigate until nine."

"Then, it's in the bedroom," she said. "Feel free to make yourself at home."

"Make myself at home?" His eyebrow peaked again, and she realized it was a habit of his.

She said, "An Earth expression. Kelek qual du."

"Intriguing." After he'd wandered off making various calls, T'Pol found her thoughts drifting again. For a moment, she almost envisioned seeing members of her own kind – without the typical Vulcan garments (long flowing robes) and with weapons that looked far superior to those of Vulcan.

The conversation, one held with Minister T'Pau months and months ago, came to the forefront and she focused on it like a laser. Romulans could have physiology that matched a Vulcan, but many of them were in disguise trying to pass themselves off as her own species.

And then, she imagined Archer sitting just a few yards away, wondering what he should do. As if using his vision, she focused in on one of the alien's faces – a single ridge, like those warrior of ancient Vulcan – protruded and she found herself chanting over and over.

_Run!_

---

0710, Archer, Captain Vega, 3 MACOs, Dr. Collins and Chief Security Officer Fairbanks – leading the MACO team, materialized on a planet; although the time to the crew was morning, the planet's was shrouded in darkness, shadows faded over lush foliage and greenery. Night animals made soft cooing and chirping noises, scrambling under the ferns and tress of this thick jungle. The three moons hung clumped together barely illuminated, shimmering in a blue haze as clouds drifted in front of them. And the air was thick and hot even at night, muggy, reminding him of summer nights in Tahiti.

Vega pulled out her scanner and waved it in the air, maneuvering a phase pistol to the right.

She said, "Several bio-signs at coordinates 21.3.7."

Everyone in the party adjusted their infrared gear; Archer stared out into the landscape using the night-vision as it took on a sickly green hue to light his way. The party fanned out according to the plan discussed in the debriefing that morning. Two MACOs accompanied Archer as they crept behind something that resembled a Banyan tree. Meanwhile, Collins, Vega, Fairbanks and the one MACO sneaked toward the bio-signs they located, using what looked like ferns and vines as cover.

Vega whispered into her communicator. "I'm picking up three human bio-signs, twelve Vulcan, one Andorian, one Tellarite ….."

_Twelve Vulcan? _thought Archer. He didn't remember that being the compliment of the delegation or the Excelsior … or the two combined.

"Any other alien bio-signs? One we're not familiar with?" he asked. He'd been expecting Romulans, which would come onto their scanners as an unknown type.

"No, sir," she said.

"Hold your position," he said.

His team skulked until they met up with Vega again. Two Vulcan men – hair shorn in the bowl-shaped style with long slender ears and eyebrows – were adorned in various metals as well as a turquoise and sea-green tunics, like chain mail. They conversed softly by the fire, so softly that Archer couldn't pick up exactly what they were saying. Weapons – ones Archer had never seen before – were attached to their hips.

"Vulcans. Thank God," said Vega. She was about to stand up when Archer grabbed her arm.

"They don't look like delegates, aides or Excelsior crewmen," he whispered. "There was only one Vulcan serving on Excelsior and only one aide for Ambassador T'Pol."

"Maybe these are Vulcans who already found them?" she asked.

"Why wouldn't they tell us?" he asked.

"We've been traveling in comm-silence. They may not have gotten the chance."

"We know all the ships assigned to this mission – these don't look like they're assigned to the Vulcan vessels."

"Correction – we're the only ships _you _know of, sir," she said. "Starfleet may've worked with the Vulcans to send more."

Ignoring the comment, Archer ordered the MACOs and Fairbanks to investigate the tents, remaining in shadows. When they disappeared into the night, Vega turned back to him.

"Sir, I don't understand your hesitation. The Vulcans are our _allies_."

Like a memory just out of grasp, his stomach churned as he tried to explain why exactly he didn't trust these circumstances. _There's a connection between Vulcans and Romulans_, he thought; Surak's memories were fuzzy, but he knew that at least. And he believed it despite T'Pol indicating there was no connection.

"It's just … something seems wrong," he said.

"Something s_eems _wrong? Admiral, I agree with Captain Vega," said Dr. Collins. He'd been quiet up until this point. "They may need medical help, sitting around here isn't doing them any favors. And it's not doing us any either."

"Look at their weapons. And, those Vulcans aren't wearing robes or uniforms that are colors of Vulcan; they're wearing ocean colors. Don't you think that's odd?" he asked.

Captain Vega said, "You don't trust them because of their choice of apparel?"

He was about to retort when his communicator whirred quietly. Archer snapped it open immediately, his eyes on the two Vulcans who continued to talk, anxious not to alert them of their presence.

_T'Pol would've heard that. _"Archer."

"This is Fairbanks. Sir, we found a tent with Ambassador Simons, Commander Stiles and a few others – they've been tied up."

"Tied up?" he asked again.

"Yes, sir."

"Their condition?" he asked, eyes on Dr. Collins.

"I don't know, sir. Some of them look pretty beaten up."

Archer said, "Give Thames the coordinates. We'll start transporting them as soon as possible."

"Yes, sir."

Archer closed his communicator and said, "Mel, contact Thames and let them know we need them to start transporting people. Tell your first officer to ask the Toltek to rendezvous with us."

"Admiral, the Andorians don't have transporters."

"I know." Although Starfleet had given the Andorians the specs, they were still retro-fitting their ships with that feature, just as Starfleet was still trying to figure out how to implement the Andorian's information about shields. "We'll transport them from the Thames to the Toltek. As soon as they have the delegates and crew, they should meet up with Moog and the rest of the fleet."

She nodded and conveyed the orders. When her communicator closed she questioned him again.

"Sir, I don't like what we're doing to the Vulcans."

"Why would they tie them up?" asked Archer.

"I'm sure there's a _logical _explanation."

"We'll find it out later. Right now, let's just make sure we get those people back safely. Dr. Collins. I'd like you to be on Thames when your patients get there."

The doctor furrowed his brow, but opened his communicator – mumbling under his breath as he did so. His image shimmered under the faint moonlight and Archer felt Mel's disapproval as he did so. Jon was about to address her concerns, as much as he could explain a gut feeling, when Mel's communicator chirped. Keeping his eyes on the Vulcans, he was glad she picked it up right away.

"Vega."

Giving a nod, she turned to Archer. "Transporters are ready when we give the order. Commander Ranol from the Toltek received the orders and should be here shortly."

Archer nodded as Fairbanks contacted him again. "Sir, we have a list of ten total survivors."

"They ready to transport?" he asked.

"Yes, sir." There was a pause. "Should I ask the Vulcans about transporting them?"

"Negative," he said. "Just … get back here as soon as possible."

Vega relayed to Thames they could begin beaming up the personnel and let a frown spread over her lips. In the next breath she ordered Dr. Collins to stand by in the Transporter Room to assist if necessary.

Within a few harried minutes, the transporter room clarified all were aboard and at the same time, one of the Vulcans – who at this point must've overheard something – took off for the tent where Archer was guessing the delegates and Excelsior crew were located.

As he was about to open his communicator and tell Fairbanks and the others to pull back, he heard phase pistol fire. Vega, hand on her weapon unhitched it – grasping it in her hands – when Archer flipped open his communicator again.

"Archer to Fairbanks."

Silence was his answer.

"Archer to Fairbanks."

Quiet.

"Fairbanks?"

A Vulcan ran out of the tent, pointing in all directions, as other Vulcans seem to pour out of another tent and help weapons in their hands. The universal translator couldn't pick up the language from a distance or perhaps the dialect the Vulcans spoke was different than the one Hoshi had programmed.

"How 'come the UT isn't picking them up?" asked Mel.

A voice deep within his mind gave him clear instructions.

_Run!_

Pointing behind him, back into the thick of the jungle, Archer gave Captain Vega the command and then proceeded to send the same communiqué through his communicator to the others – none of which he could get. As he ducked under tree limbs and stomped over ferns, he ran as fast as he could and was surprised Vega was able to keep up.

"Why are we running!" she shouted, getting angry.

A blue light streamed past them, hitting a leaf and sent it tumbling to the ground. Mel's body swiveled to deliver a blow back, when Archer caught her arm and grabbed at her, throwing her to the ground. Before she could question his move, he spoke into his communicator.

"This is Admiral Archer. Immediate transport!"

Footsteps hastened behind him and just as he looked up to determine the face of the alien attempting to kill him – a face cloaked in darkness – white swirled around him and he ended up in the Transporter Room on top of the captain under his command. A cough, one delicately delivered by Dr. Collins, made him jump up from his pose and throw a hand to Vega.

"Captain, the delegates and crewmen are in Sickbay. All of them are unconscious and have been so for some time. We'll be lucky if any of them pull through."

Ignoring Archer's chivalry, Mel jumped to her feet. "Thanks, Doc." And then with only a small breath, she turned to Jon. "What in the hell are you doing! We could've contacted the Vulcans and …."

Just as Melanie launched into a full-blown tirade, the ship shimmied for a second and Vega's speech faltered as she ran to the intercom.

"What?" she asked, her voice losing patience.

"Ma'am, we're under attack. This area is crawling with Romulans!"

Archer turned to the technician operating the transporter controls. "Crewman, try and transport Fairbanks and the MACOs."

After the young man - frustration gathering in the wrinkles above his forehead - pushed a few buttons and shoved levers one way and then another, he shook his head.

"I can't get their bio-signs. I think they're dead."

"Continue to scan the area," said Archer. "I want them back."

The ship shook again, this time nearly knocking everyone to the floor. Vega sprinted to the turbolift with Archer behind her. When they arrived in the elevator and the doors closed, Vega continued her wrath.

"You asked me about following your orders, _sir_, but it appears to me that--"

"Mel, I don't expect you to understand, but I'm telling you those Vulcans were not what they appear!"

"Hmmm, pointy ears, green skin, don't speak English … yeah – they were Vulcans."

"Why didn't the UT work?"

"Oh, come on, sir. We both know it's not programmed for every Vulcan dialect out there."

His eyes narrowed. That was a true statement, but there was something else about these Vulcans.

She said, "Whatever hair-brained scheme you constructed, you may've just cost the life of my security chief and some of his staff. Your _gut_ feelings just don't cut it with me." Pointing a finger at his chest, she snarled. "I expect when we hit the Bridge, you'll shut the hell up, _sir_."

He was about to defend his decision, loudly and with just as much venom, when the doors of the Bridge snapped open. As mad as he was, and he was fuming, he didn't think it was appropriate to dress-down the captain during battle.

"Status?" she asked, making a beeline for her seat.

A female science officer relayed the circumstance, voice full of fear. "Ma'am, we've picked up the warp signature of more than 20 Romulan vessels all within the vicinity."

"There's no way we can--" said Mel.

"What are the coordinates?" asked Archer. He ignored Mel's glare.

The science officer briefly put them onto the screen and for the first time in a long time, Archer felt dread – his heart raced in his chest and the hairs on the back of his neck stood at attention. The vessels were circling like vultures eyeing prey.

"It's a trap!" he said.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"They knew we would come," said Archer. It's why he didn't want to risk the entire fleet. "Communications, send Commanders Moog and T'Nara instructions to evacuate. Head back to Earth, taking the fleet with them."

"Aye, sir."

"We're not going to fight?" asked Mel.

"You think we can defeat them?" he asked back. "We met our objective; let's get the hell out of here."

She didn't answer, but instead folded her arms across her chest. "Helm, let's try and outrun these bastards."

The pilot nodded as the Science Officer spoke. "The Toltek has arrived."

She brought the visual back online and Archer watched as the Andorian ship fired, engaging the enemy.

"Idiot!" said Mel.

"He may've just bought us some time," said Archer. Running to the nearest intercom, he jammed his finger against the button. "Transporter, I'd like you to be prepared to send people over to the Toltek as quickly as possible."

The ship rocked, targeted for another hit, and Archer found himself scrambling for something to hold onto.

"What are you doing?" asked Mel.

Archer turned, eyes glaring. "We're not going to make it out of here. I want to abandon ship."

The Bridge became quiet as the Transporter Engineer affirmed the order. As Archer was about to stride back over to the science officer, Mel caught his arm.

"I know you're the hero of the Expanse and that you've gotten out of a few tight scrapes, but--?"

The ship, as if to answer her question, buckled and the Comm Officer reported heavy casualties to Engineering. A console next to security blew and another barrage of weapons fire hit their ship.

"We don't have a lot of time, Captain," he said.

On screen, the Toltek was taking some fire, but was able to dodge some of it. Thames was a beautiful ship, but a big hulking one – difficult to maneuver quickly and without enough hull plating to ward off real damage. Toltek was sleek and speedy, like most Andorian ships, but could travel at speed in excess of warp 9.

Another battery hit Thames and her science officer was knocked out of her seat as the Comm Officer continued to report casualties.

"You know it's the right thing to do," he said. "We can't out run them, we can't out fight them and I'd rather blow up this vessel than surrender. I don't want them to have Starfleet technology."

"We could contact the Vulcans below," she said.

"For what purpose? They didn't have a ship with them."

Mel frowned and her chocolate eyes glistened for a second. Voice hardened, she gave the order. "First Officer Dannon, I'd like you to begin coordinating personnel off the Thames. Make a priority for the delegates, Excelsior crew and Dr. Collins."

The man at communications nodded and began typing in information as well as talking into the intercom with various instructions on the order of evacuation. The last name he gave for transport was Captain Vega's.

Archer turned his head. "Captain Vega and I will leave together."

She said, "An admiral isn't supposed to go down on an away team mission, nor is he supposed to go down with a ship."

"You're under my command…."

Realization hit her eyes and despite the trying circumstances and yelling at him only fifteen minutes prior, she grabbed her hand around his bicep.

"Boy Scout."

"What?"

"You asked me which was more true: son-of-a-bitch or Boy Scout. Boy Scout."

"Didn't seem to think so less than thirty minutes ago," he said.

Shaking her head, a smile came over her lips. "Now, let's get my people off this ship."

---

It took only a few hours for Skon to secure something and as soon as nine o'clock arrived, he arranged to rent it out for the next few months, including showing up _that _day.

In between Skon relaying information that he'd secured a location to meet were images of Archer – having a phase pistol pointed at him and being on a ship that was under constant fire. A woman, around 40-years old, was at his side constantly and for an instant T'Pol could swear she felt a kinship building between them; he thought she was tiny and attractive and she believed that every time this woman turned her eyes to Archer, he smirked.

After telling herself, several times, that such a thought was preposterous, she rubbed at her temples and joined Skon.

"I already contacted Ambassador Shran and asked him to accompany us with his aide."

"Very well," she said.

"He should be meeting us within the hour."

"Then allow me to gather my robes." As she slipped then on, sticking the IDIC pin to her wardrobe, she couldn't help but feel uneasy. It wasn't the meetings, they were vital and happened on a daily basis – even inside Gral's hospital room. This was more worrisome, and she couldn't pinpoint the source of her apprehension. Rather than bring it up to her aide, mostly because she wasn't sure how she could combat it, she furrowed her brow and attempted to reign in her thoughts.

The time came when they gathered in the lobby of her hotel, leading to a back room, which Skon indicated met the basic security protocol Captain Reed had given him. As T'Pol took her seat in the small, dark chamber, she waited for Shran to arrive. Instead of being patient, she could feel her foot tap as if anxious about the arrival and what would happen. Late, as usual, the Andorian showed up with Tares.

As the tall, blue woman entered the facility, T'Pol couldn't help but think how much like Talas she looked. When the Vulcan struggled for speech, Shran took it as an opportunity to introduce his aide.

"This is Tares."

"Greetings," said T'Pol.

Skon held his hand up in the shape of a "V" and welcomed her. "Greetings, Tares. My name is Skon."

Ambassador Shran stuck out his hand. "I'm Thy'lek Shran of Andoria. You're helping a great woman … even if she's a Vulcan."

Skon raised an eyebrow at the blue forearm and stared back at the Andorian.

"That's alright, Skull. I understand your idiosyncrasies about touching. I've known T'Pol long enough to at least accept it."

T'Pol remained quiet.

"My name is not Skull, it's--"

Shran interrupted. "Tares, why don't you tell T'Pol about your conversation."

The woman, her chest squashed into a tight-fitting leather vest, leaned over in front of the Andorian – blue flesh pushing out – as his antennae poked forward. Putting her elbows on the table, she spoke.

"I talked with the Coridans. I have an acquaintance who used to be part of the rebellion; his name is Kazar. Although he didn't sound enthusiastic, the conversation was promising. He agreed to meet with us next week."

T'Pol nodded. "It's progress."

Shran's smile beamed on his aide. "It sure is."

"And what about the Ithanites?" asked Skon.

"No word," said T'Pol. "Gral indicated he would try contacting them again today."

"Ambassador T'Pol asked me to put together a list of species Enterprise favorably encountered during their ten-year mission. The list is short, however--"

Shran said, "Get on with it, Scorn."

"Skon."

Waving, the Andorian male gestured for him to hurry as Skon held the PADD in front of him and began reading from it. A screen full of names were read, including the Vissians, whom T'Pol wasn't certain had a good experience with Enterprise. After every species either Shran or T'Pol dismissed them summarily, indicating they wouldn't help (either because they were a pacifist or hated one of the allies) or couldn't help (like the Akaali civilization). In the end they were left with the same names which they'd tried desperately contacting.

Tares smiled. "What about Andorians' allies?"

Shran narrowed his eyes. "You aren't suggesting the Cardassians?"

T'Pol's eyebrow quipped; they were the most violent race the Vulcans had ever witnessed.

Tares shook her head. "No, the Deltan."

Shran's face illuminated into a smile. "They do have _lovely _women."

Skon said, "Ambassador Shran, surely we need more than aesthetics to win the war."

"Scab, the Deltans also have technology on their side."

"That is _Skon_, Ambassador. And I realize their technology, however--"

T'Pol shook her head and stood to pace, something that was unlike her. After walking ten steps ahead she turned and headed in he opposite direction.

She said, "The Denobulans …. We know one who is in good stead with his people. Perhaps Phlox can speak for his race--"

"It was Xemax who turned out to be a spy. I would think the Denobulans are cleaning house at this very moment," said Shran.

"Ambassador T'Pol has a point," said Tares. "It makes sense to exhaust our contacts first."

Skon agreed. "Ambassador T'Pol's hypothesis seems correct."

Shran nodded his head, his antennae bobbing along. "Then T'Pol should speak with Phlox. None of us have sway with the doctor like she does."

T'Pol agreed. "I would be honored. I think he has--"

Suddenly, the room spun – images blurring and coming into focus intermittently and she grabbed her head. Screaming, loud and drowning out all other noise, rang through her ears deafening her and sinking her to her knees. Images of ships crashing into solid rock, trees and earth captured her mind. Gasping for breath, she realized there was none to take – her lungs choked with smoke – fire was everywhere and crept closer to her every second. Heat, like fire, licked at her limbs and almost as if her head crashed against a metal object she felt herself black out as she reached out to a ghost-like figure.

"T'Pol!" shouted Shran. The last thing T'Pol remembered was the Andorian and Skon rushing to her side.

---

Archer watched the helm, giving Captain Vega status reports, as systems across the Thames failed. Lights, life support, hull plating, nearly every system was gone. Even the comm rang with static, barely operational. Vega had given the order to abandon ship and luckily, the two watched as every crew member and ship fleeing the broken Thames fled to the Toltek – a ship that had taken heavy damage, but was about to outrun the Romulans.

Vega turned to her Science Officer, Sarah Reynolds, who was also acting as Comm. "You got the last of the personnel off this vessel?"

"Dannon indicated they are aboard the Toltek," she said.

"I'm sorry you're dying with us, Sarah," said Vega. "Admiral, with your permission, I'd like to start destruction sequence Charlie-Tango-1."

Archer gave a nod, a grimace on his face, as he entered the information into the control in front of him. As the last digit was typed, an alarm sounded – a noise that reminded him of old submarine movies – echoing through an empty ship.

"Self destruction in thirty minutes," said an omnipotent voice – the computer, counting down the time needed to destroy itself.

The science officer looked up. "Ma'am, I'm getting a hail from the Toltek, they're having engine trouble."

Archer and Vega stared at each other, and then Jon's voice rang over the comm. "Commander Ranol, I don't care what you have to do – get your people out of here!"

Garbled, Ranol spoke back. "Sir, the last blast took out our engines. I have men working on it, but--"

"Dump everything except the kitchen sink to get that ship going!"

"Wish … could, Admiral, but … engineers estimate … fifteen minutes to repair."

Although the comm link was weakening, Archer got the point. Turning to Vega, Archer put his hand on the throttle. "Maybe the last effort we have is to drive into the heart of their attack pattern."

The captain sat in her chair. "Admiral--"

He sighed. "Submit a surrender notice to the Romulans. When they come aboard, as we approach their ships, let's destroy her."

"We'd have to set the destruction timer for just a few seconds."

Archer agreed. "Sarah, can you get started?"

"Yes, sir."

He nodded. "Good."

When the science officer left to talk with the only engineer left on the ship, Vega turned to him as he calculated exactly what needed to happen for most of the ships to be destroyed.

"We could try and transport off the ship onto the planet as the Romulans arrive here."

"It'd take someone at the transporter controls."

"I _am_ the captain," she said. "I have five years serving in security, which means a lot of training on them."

"You may have five years, but the man who created the transporter was a family friend."

She sighed. "Sir, you don't always have to play the hero."

"No, meant, I think I know a way we can leave together. We can jury-rig the transporter controls so that we can beam down at the same time." He smiled. "The creator showed me how to do it when I was a kid. It's how he was able to send himself through the device."

Vega smiled. "Then let's see what we can do, Admiral."

He nodded and then took off for the Transporter Room to make last minute tweaks. After bragging about Emory showing him how to create a remote transporting option, he wasn't sure he could remember. Unable almost to focus, he kept thinking about T'Pol, especially since he felt the end was near; making it off Thames was a long shot.

_It was wonderful while it lasted. _

A smile came to his lips as he unscrewed a metal plate from the transporter control and began to work. Kissing her mouth, tasting it, was warmer than he ever could've imagined; her lips were the flavor of the desert itself – hot, refreshing like a breeze and spicy like cinnamon, vanilla and nutmeg, unique to her planet. Her eyes, copper-colored, watched him almost wide and innocent any time he held her to him, including their last night together….

"Admiral, how's it coming?" asked Vega.

Coughing, trying to shoo the memories away, he set her at ease with a small fib. "Fine. Only three more minutes." It was more like five, but he figured he'd scramble faster.

"I sent our possible surrender to the Romulans minute ago. I didn't receive a confirmation."

"Did you tell them an admiral and a captain was aboard?" he asked.

"I did."

"Then we have a chance."

"I set the coordinates to drive our ship into the heart of their fleet, sir."

The smile forming on his lips was faint. "Any news from the Toltek."

"They still don't have engines."

"We're going to be cutting it close," he said. The comment was to no one in particular, but Vega answered.

"Yes, we are."

"When I get this rigged, let's send your science office and engineer to the Toltek."

"You're concerned something will go wrong?" she asked.

_Always am._ "I want to make sure they get out of here."

After both shut off the comm, he frantically worked to cross wires as he'd seen Emory do so often before. And with the precision of a scientist, he was able to adjust everything within his time estimate, testing a stray spanner before leaving his work. Once he got the Bridge, Vega ordered the two remaining crewmen off the ship and within an instant the Toltek vanished into space.

A transmission came over the audio and Archer patched it to be heard overhead. The words were said in Terran.

"Prepare to be boarded."

Archer transmitted the protocols to the Romulans and waited. Vega crossed to the helm to start the destruction sequence and moaned as it sputtered unable to comply with her request. After entering it four times, and running a diagnostic, she gave an exasperated shout.

"We just lost central control," she said. "It'll take a while to get it back."

Archer left the comm station and went directly to the science station. "We did lose central control."

"We could go to Engineering and blow this vessel up," she said.

The procedure would take twenty minutes; too much time. An alarm rang overhead and an automated response of a flashing red signal appeared over the Bridge door.

Archer scowled. "Intruders."

"The Romulans," she said.

"Seal off the Bridge," he said.

With determination, she got to the turbolift and began fiddling with the door lock to keep the Bridge under their control while Archer ensured that Engineering was shut out of the main power supply. Just as Vega completed her task, she heard pounding on the other side. Fear bubbled in her eyes and Archer decided to make a command decision.

"We're taking Thames to the planet," he said.

"What?"

"We're going to crash her." It was the only way to destroy her now.

When she was about to go to the helm and follow out her last orders, she heard him come up behind her.

"Why don't I take the wheel, Captain. This is your ship. You should give the final command."

Twinkling, her gaze held his. "All right. Give me your best speed, Admiral Archer."

"My name is Jon."

She smiled broader. "All right, Jon."

She asked for speed, but there was none to give; the engines were dead in the water – not even impulse existed, but in leaving the atmosphere, they needed no additional speed; gravity would suck them to the planet quickly, hurling them through space. Chances were good that the impact alone would destroy the ship. And with that, he gripped the steering column and let the ship fall from its orbit to stream down to a planet – the one that rescued the diplomats.

The captain crossed, putting their descent on view screen and Archer marveled at how fast they were beginning to plummet. As the altimeter spun – whizzing numbers by, one after another – he held consciousness and he was pleased to see Mel did the same; during the Academy half the class usually passed out during rapid descent like this.

When the ship reached the atmosphere, the heat rose significantly – as they saw flames ignite transforming them into a fireball. The few sensors that remained functional whined and complained under the extraordinary heat, and the ship groaned, buckling under the temperature. Sweat dripped down Archer's temple and he could feel perspiration pooling under his arms and at his upper and lower back.

"Impact in ten point five minutes."

He turned to see that she was covered in sweat as well – long, damp hair clinging to her face.

"If we don't make it out," said Archer, "well … it's been a pleasure knowing you."

They could see the ground from the view screen - trees morphed from nothingness to specks and mountains rose quickly into the foreground. Trickles of blue became rivers vast and wide. Time sped and quickly the specks of trees became objects as Thames was about to smack against them.

"Thanks for staying with the ship," she said.

And then suddenly they hit the earth – hard. The ship stuttered from the force and then plowed into the planet again, kicking up dust, dirt and debris in their wake. After the force smashed his head against the panel in front of him, it hurled him from helm– legs over head – smashing him against the ground and causing a warm trickle to cascade down his face. He saw Mel also jolted from her seat, but the force of the chair in front, the one at helm that he used to occupy, stopped her. She wheezed from the force against her breadbasket.

A bang claimed the lower deck, sending ripples through the ship; Archer guessed Engineering was being engulfed by flame. Metal snapped and equipment exploded around the Bridge until fire began to consume consoles, wire and metal, crackling as it ate the fuel. Another more ominous boom ripped through the ship and the concussion of the sound blew the door from the turbolift zooming toward the view screen as Archer ducked just in time. The crash of the metal sent sparks flying in all directions. One burned his cheek.

_Any second now_, Archer thought, _the reactor will blow_.

Steel and wires dangled and then tumbled down around him, grazing his temple. As he struggled to sit, Mel shot to her feet and typed in a few commands on the board behind him. A mechanical voice, garbled, sounded overhead.

"Destruct sequence in ten minutes."

"Admiral, stay with me," said Mel. "Jon!"

He gave a nod, but doing so made his head throb with pain and the blood flowing down his face grow thicker. Wiping a hand across his mouth, he noticed blood and wondered whether he'd bit his lip. And then he recognized a feeling: pain. Blazing across his temples and smashing into his arm, the pain ripped him of his thoughts. It loosened a moan.

Mel, took the phase pistol from her belt and walked over to Archer to cover him with her body before shooting at the ceiling. A few shards fell around them, one struck her cheek and he noticed one larger piece tore into his leg. A hole peered into the nighttime sky – one just on the verge of dawn.

"Jon, I need you to stand."

Attempting to gather at his feet, he felt dizzy and nearly lost consciousness. "I don't think I can," he slurred. Beginning to numb to the pain, he felt his thoughts drift to the first time he stepped on Enterprise.

_Is this Enterprise? _"I have to get the crew off this ship," he said.

"Get up!" she said. When he struggled without result, he felt her tower over him. "Don't you back down on me."

And before he knew it, the 5'1" woman dragged his form up and somehow he made it onto his feet.

"Stand on this console," she said.

She pointed to the helm, her hand holding a small box, and his stomach turned that there was blood covering the station. _It must be Mayweather's._

"Where's Travis?" he asked. "Is he hurt?"

Although Mel frowned, she nodded. "Your crew needs you to get out of here."

He pushed his weary body to the board and staggered as he tried to hoist himself on it. When he'd managed to barely make it to his feet, Mel got next to him – the fire raging around them – and climbed on him to reach the ceiling. Grabbing the dome – she lifted herself up with a yell as if to demand her muscles to bring her up. Immediately on escape, she turned to Archer.

"Give me your hand."

"Did we clear everyone out of Engineering? Is Trip okay?"

"Jon, give me your hand."

Suddenly, his thoughts clearing he shook his head, tasting blood. "I don't think you're strong enough to--"

"Damnit, give me your hand!"

Barely able to lift his arm, he felt himself black out – pain encompassing him from the heat of the Bridge and the head wound.

TBC


	28. Chapter 28

A/N: Thanks for all the kind words.

T'Pol grabbed her head and tried to settle her stomach, which was on the verge of rebelling. Taking a deep breath, she suddenly realized Shran was crouched next to her, concern smacked on his face and his hand on her shoulder.

"You're not pregnant are you?" he asked.

Her eyebrow rose unintentionally at the remark, and she turned her head slightly to notice Skon squatting next to her, his eyebrow pitching a little higher.

"Did you say pregnant?" asked Skon.

Antennae squirmed with annoyance. "You'd think with ears like those, you'd be able to hear a little better," said Shran. "She's been having headaches and after the face-plant she just performed, I'm thinking she might be carrying a child." He continued, "After Jhamel was engorged with my seed, she would faint at the drop of a talpig. In fact, --"

Drowning out the discussion around her, T'Pol put a hand to her temple. Pushing herself to sit up, she began to understand why she had fleeting images of Jonathan in pain, his uniform torn and blood staining his forehead and spilling from his lip. It's why she was able to see a ship – it's metal twisting and engulfed in flame – crashing into the earth.

_It cannot be._

And yet it was. The headaches, his voice sometimes ringing in her ears, visions of him ….. A connection had been made, one that she was unable to sense through mind melds performed before his departure. This link between them was real, forged during the time they spent together – the time they had spent lying in each other's arms as lovers, talking as colleagues and working together as friends.

_A bond._

Then, recognition of Jonathan's dire straights sunk in.

When T'Pol opened her eyes, Shran was still discussing the finer points of pregnancy – blue hands curving as it to show a bloated belly. Skon, who also seemed to ignore the Andorian, leaned over.

"Are you well, Ambassador?" he asked. "Should I contact a doctor?"

Struggling to her feet, she blinked away the dizziness, realizing her hand was still at her head. "No."

Tares, arms folded, walked closer. "You don't look well."

Just as T'Pol was about to correct the woman, another wave of nausea overcame her, tightening her stomach, maybe even – she realized – Jonathan's nausea.

_Jonathan?_

There was no answer to her call.

_Is he dead?_

There was the tingling of life and with concentration, silencing the noise of the room, she traced it to a strange planet – one that reminded her of Risa, tropical and lush. Taking long, deep breaths, she attempted to call to him again.

_Jonathan?_

There was no response.

_Perhaps he does not know how to use the bond. Worse, perhaps he is close to death. _

And so in her mind, she screamed – one so loud it deafened her and prompted her other hand to fly to her temple.

_Jonathan!_

Thumping quickly, her heart raced and she felt his did as well, shocking him awake him from an unconscious slumber. She imagined him grabbing his chest, draped over someone's shoulder, in surprise and giving a shout.

_What?_

As Shran touched her shoulder again, the connection – and her concentration - vanishing.

"You're grabbing your stomach, are you nauseous too?" he asked.

"What?" she asked.

Shran called over his shoulder. "Tares get a doctor. No, get Phlox." With a smile on his face, he turned back to T'Pol. "It'd figure that the Pink Skin has the potency of a Andorian thaan in the heat of the Great Thaw."

She shook her head. "I'm not with child."

It didn't stop Tares from using an intercom to contact Dr. Phlox.

"What precisely is a Pink Skin?" asked Skon.

"A human," answered T'Pol.

And the two held each other's gaze for a moment, as if he were going to ask if she had relations with a human. He didn't ask, and she remained silent.

"Dr. Phlox will be here soon," said Tares.

"Why don't you sit down until then," said Shran.

T'Pol allowed herself to be guided to a chair and Skon left momentarily to bring back a glass of water as Tares fanned her (despite the Vulcan's equivalent to a glare, asking her not to). After taking a sip and attempting to quiet her mind and heart, T'Pol put down the glass.

"We must contact Admiral Garner immediately."

"Why?" asked Shran.

"Thames crash landed on a planet."

A scowl came across his face and his antennae bobbed. "What?"

"Thames crash landed on a planet." Closing her eyes, she provided additional information. "The diplomats and crewmen of the Excelsior made it to safety; although few of them were alive. They left on an Andorian vessel and are headed to Earth."

"The last report I got was that the Toltek was waiting for further instructions … and the Pink Skin had the antennae to promote an Andorian to serve as commander of the Potomac."

T'Pol touched her head. "Yes, but that was hours ago. This just happened."

"I would've been notified by Krag if things had changed," said Shran.

"I mean it happened merely seconds ago."

"Seconds ago? It's a good thing Phlox is coming, you must've hit your head; you've been here the entire time."

T'Pol gave the scarcest of frowns and pushed herself from the chair, despite being unable to clearly focus her eyes and her churning stomach. Staggering to the nearest terminal, the one Tares used, she punched a few buttons and saw a woman from Starfleet – it was the central administrator.

"This is Ambassador T'Pol. I'd like to speak with Admiral Gardner right away."

"He's debriefing right now."

"It's urgent." When the woman shook her head, she reasserted her authority. "It's _urgent_."

As T'Pol waited for the line to be transferred to Admiral Gardner, Skon stood at her side. In the quietest of voices he asked.

"Ma tel k'qom'i?" asked Skon.

She was about to answer when Admiral Gardner's image appeared. "T'Pol, I'm in the middle of a--"

"Admiral, the Thames crash landed on a planet."

"What?"

She noticed Shran had maneuvered next to her as well. The Andorian said, "Admiral, we're terribly sorry. The ambassador must've bumped her head--"

Speaking over the Andorian, she continued to deliver the news. "Sir, the Toltek has the survivors from the Excelsior and the entire fleet is heading to Earth."

The admiral's jaw dropped and he leaned into the communication device. "How the devil did you know? I heard this report just a few seconds ago."

Shran's antennae arched back and T'Pol shook her head. "Admiral Archer and the captain of the Thames survived the crash and they are on a planet in the sector. I believe they've been there before – it's one that is lush and tropical."

Gardner said, "I'm sorry to say that Commander Moog reported that they crashed into the planet to blow the ship up. And it looks like they succeeded. Thames signal disappeared just before you contacted us." Gravely, Gardner's voice lowered. "I'm sorry, but it appears Captain Vega and Admiral Archer are dead."

"Admiral, I'm telling you Admiral Archer is alive."

"T'Pol--"

"He's alive."

"I know Jon was a friend of yours and--"

Heart pounding, she lost track of the conversation about loss and friendship as she imagined Jonathan slung over a small woman's shoulder, badly injured. The woman, raven hair flying behind her, tore off into the thick of a jungle, dodging under overgrowth. As they made it to a small clearing, with a cave within sight, the earth shook.

Suddenly, blowing the two of them forward, an explosion of giant proportions sounded behind them, kicking up dirt, dust and debris in all directions. As the ground flung into the air, some of it on top of her bond-mate, spraying him, she shook her head almost violently.

"No!" Slamming her fist onto the counter, she nearly yelled. "He's alive!"

The room fell into an icy silence and the admiral watched her, a frown creeping over his face. Attempting to regain her mask – her unemotional veneer – she breathed deeply and explained.

"Admiral Archer and I have a bond." Before Gardner could ask what that meant, she continued. "It is a Vulcan mental link that enables me to communicate with him. That is how I know he lives."

The admiral continued to stare, as if trying to make sense of what she just said, when Skon spoke up.

"Sir, Vulcans are touch telepaths. To better communicate with someone, a Vulcan occasionally," he said, his eyes wandering to T'Pol, "enters a bond. Thoughts, emotions – they are accessible instantly."

Gardner's eyes were still narrowed. "It's difficult to believe that they could've survived a crash."

"But, they did," said T'Pol. "You know I would not rouse you from your meeting unless I _knew _beyond doubt they lived."

Gardner said, "Let me talk this over with the other admirals. I'll get back to you."

"Please do so, soon. I believe they are in grave danger."

When the screen faded to black, T'Pol turned to Skon. "Thank you for your help and discretion."

Skon nodded. "It did not seem prudent to reveal the exact circumstances of a bond at this time."

Shran, hands on his hips, stared at them. "So, Vulcans are mind-readers, too?"

"We are telepaths, but by touch only," said Skon.

Shran inadvertently backed away, his eyes on T'Pol and his antennae hunched forward – suspicious. She attempted to close the distance, even touch him to calm him or reassure him, but he put his hand on the ceremonial blade he kept at his hip and shirked her hand.

"That's close enough," he said.

She sighed.

---

When Archer awoke, it was with a start and slung over Captain Vega's shoulder as she darted around ancient trees and under vines. It took a while for him to understand his surroundings – the bright blue sky with white puffy clouds that floated by, the smell of rain and animals and the damp that stuck to his already sweating skin, mixing with the blood dripping down his face. As he came to, he remembered what sparked him to open his eyes: T'Pol's voice shouting his name, the sound ringing in his ears.

Wondering if maybe she was behind him, he asked, "What?"

"Lie still, Admiral," said Mel Vega.

Doing as he was asked, he heard her huffing as she continued to rush through the jungle, his head and body jostling at her movement.

"Where's my first officer?" he asked. _First officer, that doesn't sound quite right._

"The first officer aboard Thames or Potomac?" she asked.

"No, T'Pol."

"You mean the ambassador?"

_Yes, ambassador._

His stomach lurched, maybe because he was draped over the shoulder of a someone who he thought barely cleared five feet, or because he could still taste blood in his mouth.

"Set me down," he said.

"Wish I could, sir, but I can't right now. We have to clear the blast zone."

"How far do we have to go?" he asked. His voice sounded hoarse, even to his ears.

"A ways further."

"Then leave me here," he said.

"Stop playing the hero."

Breathing through the need to purge his gut, his eyes remained unfocused and the deep breaths he sucked in hurt his head, mainly because his face was bouncing against her back.

After what seemed like hours, but Jon rationed must've been much sooner, Captain Vega found a cave and just as they were about to enter its mouth a explosion kicked up dirt and debris in all locations, hurling it into the sky and knocking Mel and he to the ground through the sheer concussion. A spray of dirt seemed to come at them from all directions. The blast turned the daytime sky bright orange for a minute and then blackened out the sun with smoke. Flying animals, ones that already scattered from the landing, flew further away to escape the destruction.

Clarity started to form, defogging his memory – the crash, the fire and then nothingness as Vega tried to grab his hand, using sheer brute strength to save him. However she rescued him, he couldn't be sure.

He asked, "I thought the self-destruction didn't work."

"When we landed, it must've jarred the systems. Admiral Jeffries always told me it could happen," she said. "Damned if he wasn't right."

She helped him up, throwing his arm over her, and led him into the cave quickly before they could feel the earth shake beneath them again and the real pyrotechnics, thanks to the of the plasma injectors, display – burning the jungle.

The cave was sandstone in nature – warm brown and gold – and the faint dripping of water could be heard even under the rumble of the chaos around them. Mostly dragging him inside, she helped him to a rock to perch.

"We should be safe here," she said.

He looked at the captain, she was drenched in sweat, probably from hefting a man of about 180 pounds, probably almost 80 pounds heavier than she. Mel also had a small bruise forming at her cheek and a few cuts most likely caused from the reinforced glass shards of the Bridge's dome-like roof. Grabbing at his head, he leaned over to sit down and felt Mel assist him to the ground.

A medical kit, one she'd been apparently holding in her hand, appeared from nowhere and she opened it and retrieved the scanner.

"Thanks for saving my life," he said.

The device whirred in front of his head and she frowned. "You have a concussion, sir."

"Thought we were on a first name basis, Mel," he said.

It caused a small smile to spread across her lips. "I don't know if we have enough to treat you successfully."

"I'll take whatever you got."

A hypo shot into his neck and his vision cleared a little, but it didn't help his stomach much. The eggs he ate earlier liquefied in his belly.

"I don't suppose you've taken field medicine lately?" she asked.

His eyes narrowed. It'd been years since he had – probably more than four.

"I took a class last year, but it's difficult to remember," she said.

"You won't hear any complaints from me," he said.

"I do remember you're supposed to keep a patient who's had a concussion awake for approximately twenty four hours."

She rummaged through the kit and took out a sterilizing pad and a device to stitch his head. After swiping the pad across his head he winced – it served both sterilization purposes as well as had a mild numbing agent, so the sting didn't last long.

"I'm going to sew your wound, let me know if it hurts."

Taking the device to his head, he felt the pinpricks, but decided he could withstand the pain. Mel watched his face and then stopped suddenly.

"You need more?"

"I'm all right."

"What'd I say about the hero-shit, Jon."

He gave a small laugh. "I'd pipe up if it were worse."

She looked at her handiwork and gave a frown. "I hope you don't scar."

"Wouldn't be the first time."

"You _do_ seem to like to get into the middle of a scrape."

"Keeps up my supposed legendary status, the one you said I have."

A giggle, a girlish one, blurted from her mouth as she packed the sewing device away and despite his pain, he chuckled, too until he noticed the bruise on her cheek become bright blue.

"You all right?" he asked.

"I'm okay."

"Don't suppose we have any water in that medkit?" he asked.

"We have a filter, but that's about it … and two packs of Starfleet rations."

_Only two days. _He nodded.

"I know you're not a fan of the Vucans," she said, staring at her medkit, "but, I'd like to find the ones on this planet. They're our only way to survive."

He hadn't been prejudiced against Vulcans for some time, but decided not to refute that point. "I don't think it's a good idea."

"No offense, but we can't just trust your gut here. We need food and water, which they have."

He was silent.

She said, "I'd also like to find my Security Chief and MACOs."

"Your Transporter Technician said he didn't read any human bio-signs."

"I need to at least know," she said.

And although he thought it was foolish, he couldn't argue against that logic. If he were the captain, he'd want to find his men, too, even if they were dead. Besides, the only thing warning him not to trust the Vulcans was a voice that sounded like T'Pol's. Maybe it was the head trauma he suffered, but he could swear he could hear her whispering to him, crystal clear, as if she was sitting next to him. Even right now, she was warning him against venturing too far away.

"How are we going to find them?" he asked. "Your medical scanner barely covers a foot radius."

"I still have the coordinates from when we transported down the first time. I know it's about ten miles from here. Besides, I'm hoping they'll want to check out the huge fireball in the sky that is burning down the jungle."

_Logical_, he thought, grimacing as he thought it

"All right," he said after several minutes had passed.

"Good."

Another wave of nausea hit, one too demanding to ignore, so he pushed himself to his feet. Making his way to the mouth of the cave in the nick of time, he expelled whatever was in his stomach. Instead of feeling instantly better, he felt the need would come again soon. Wiping his mouth, he saw the same traces of blood and closed his eyes; there was more than just the blood he swallowed – there was internal bleeding.

_Maybe when Mel's asleep, I can determine what it is. No sense in worrying her, or slowing her down._

"You okay, Jon?"

"Yeah," he lied. He kicked dirt over it in an attempt to hide it and following basic survival training. Luckily, it was hidden from view as Mel came over.

She said, "Maybe we can rest here until tomorrow."

"Don't slow down on my account. I need to apparently stay awake anyway."

She grabbed his bicep. "I'm kinda pooped myself." Without his encouragement, she helped him back into the cave and then assisted him in sitting.

"I'm impressed you managed to carry me so far," he said.

"Little girl like me, huh? You're not exactly a beefy." Pushing back a piece of her black hair, she shrugged. "And I'm stronger than I look."

As he nestled himself against the wall, in a position that would minimize his pain, he gave a small smile to her. The next few hours they spent talking, her gently pushing him occasionally to wake up. When day passed with pink and purple succumbing to blackness, they could tell the jungle had mostly burned itself out, the tinges of smoke barely reaching the cave. Mel wandered off deeper into the cave and found a small spring to act as their source of water. Filtering it, she let Archer have the first cup and unwrapped the rations, which he waved off despite several attempts to make him eat them. The water on the other hand was cool and felt good going down his throat even if it splashed in his gullet. Before long, he drained half the cup and looked at the water and then her guiltily.

She said, "You must've been thirsty. Have the rest I'll get more."

He did so, gulping it, and then handed the cup to her. "Thanks."

Smiling she accepted and wandered back into the cave and retrieved another cup, sipping at it.

"You like camping?" she asked. She poked the fire with her stick.

"Yeah."

"Me, too. My dad would take me to a trail along the Appalachian and we'd camp – primitive style."

"I've used to go there with my dad, too," he said. "I barely remember it, but what I do remember is that it was beautiful."

"Sure was. I got my first brownie badge there. Of course, it didn't hurt that Dad was the Brownie Leader."

He smiled. "What was your badge in?"

"Discoverer or discovery, I forget," she said. "I was able to find our campsite and spotted a skunk."

After catching his eye, she asked, "You in the Cub Scouts?"

"Dad was the leader. I liked it so much I joined the Boy Scouts."

She smiled. "I'm sure you get this a lot, but … your dad's text on engineering was a bible to us."

"I didn't see engineering in your files," he said.

"Almost was an engineer. Decided at the last minute to focus on other things. I seem to have a gift for tactical situations, so decided to go through security. But, I never really gave up my love for fiddling with equipment. Much to my chief engineer's chagrin, I liked to go down there and occasionally help him out. He'll be pissed when he finds out Thames is dust."

The fire sparkled in her eyes, turning them almost amber in color and her cheeks blushed crimson.

"Sorry. I don't usually go on and on about myself," she said.

"Seems like we have plenty of time to kill," he said. "Besides, it's nice. To be honest, I've been 6the admiral for a little too long. Titles never sat well with me."

Her smile brightened and her cheeks turned redder as her lids lowered. Approaching carefully, she reached out to touch the stitches at his forehead and ran her thumb along them slowly, watching his eyes as she did.

"I'm sure the stitches are fine," he said.

"Never hurts to check."

Sitting a little closer, she crouched against the same wall he did and the two talked into the night, even past the dying embers of the fire, the two whispered to each other in the darkness.

---

After explaining to Shran, for the fourth time, that she was not pregnant and that yes – Vulcans did have telepathy, but no ­– they were unable to distinguish thoughts unless touching was involved and even then they preferred to reject the emotions of those they came in contact with – his antennae eased.

"Why didn't you tell me this before, _Vulcan_?" he asked T'Pol.

"It is not a tradition Vulcans speak of, Ambassador," said Skon. "It is private in nature."

"I wasn't talking with you, Scat," said Shran. And he whipped his head to T'Pol. "I thought we were friends."

She took a deep breath and then pointed her gaze toward the Andorian. "You know his name is Skon. You should call him that."

His antennae rose in defense, but she ignored it.

"As for telling you sooner …. Skon is correct, this tradition is personal." He looked nonplused, hands stuffed across his chest waiting for more information, and she gave in.

"It is private because," she said, "the bond develops between those who are romantically … intimately involved."

"Oh?" he asked. A furrowed brow gave way to a grin, as if for the first time he believed her, and he dragged a chair next to her – plopping himself in it. "Do tell."

As her mouth opened, Phlox crossed the threshold of the room and for a moment T'Pol was glad that they had contacted him even if he was unneeded. Rushing in, his white lab coat flapping behind him, he sounded a little out of breath.

"I heard you fainted?" he asked.

"I feel better."

Tares pushed a chair out for the Vulcan and she sat down, at Phlox's encouragement, as he ran a scanner over her. The Denobulan lowered his medical equipment. With a knitted brow, he leaned in.

"Your eyes seem unfocused. Have you had any head trauma recently?" he asked.

"No," she said. And before he could continue, she flattened her lips. "However Jonathan has."

"Admiral Archer?"

"Yes."

"I don't understand what he has to do with it."

"She has a thing with him." Shran pointed to the Vulcan. "She was just about to tell us what it meant."

As if losing her patience, suffering under the lack of serenity that humans felt – maybe even one earned by being bonded to Jonathan Archer, she sighed. "This connection with him enables me to feel his emotions and his pain, experience it as if it were my own. The Vulcans call this parted, but never parted. It is an ancient tradition that helps us when our mating cycle comes." When she saw Phlox open his mouth, probably to ask more about that particular subject, she intervened while staring at Shran. "This bond was caused because, according to Jonathan, he has had feelings for me for some time, and … I have developed feelings for him as well. We have chosen each other."

Stunned silence filled the room until a smirk landed on Shran's face. "When's the wedding?"

She was tempted to roll her eyes. "There may never be one if someone doesn't reach Jonathan soon," she said. "He is in great pain and in dire circumstances – head trauma is the least of his concerns." A hand involuntarily grabbed at her stomach. "It is why he must be found quickly."

Shran said, "I can contact General Krag and ask him to deploy one of the Andorian ships to pick up the Pink Skin."

And before he could instruct Tares, she got up to make his request happen and the blue man could only look after her with a smile of admiration.

Phlox said, "You may be experiencing his pain, but my medical equipment says _you _should rest."

"I will see to it," said Skon.

"And I do want to see you tomorrow – bond or no," he said.

T'Pol shook her head while Skon answered. "Of course, Doctor."

"Thank you," he said.

While Phlox gathered his equipment eavesdropping as he did, T'Pol turned to her assistant. "I don't need a nursemaid."

An eyebrow cocked, and yet his face remained placid. "I have been entrusted to help an ambassador of Vulcan, a woman who has risen to the stature of president of a council crucial to peace during a time of war. Is it not _logical_ you should be cared for, especially when you are ill?"

"I am not ill."

"I am Vulcan. I know what it is to have a bond with a mate who is dying," he said. His eyes narrowed by the slightest margins. "You should rest err the ties that bind you together drag you asunder."

"Listen to Skip," said Shran. He winced and he corrected himself. "Skon. He seems wise for a _Vulcan_."

T'Pol said, "Jonathan must be found. I will not rest until that happens." Tilting her head only slightly, she said, "And he is not _dying_ … at least not yet."

"There is a certain point where separation is necessary for your health," said Skon. "Forced separation …."

The remark stood unfinished, but she knew. She'd read through his files, he'd stayed with his mate until the bitter end, and apparently it was bitter – she suffered from Tuvan Syndrome. Besides, she knew the risks and didn't need any reminders, not now when her realization about how she felt was so new and hopeful.

She said, "You and I both know that having a bond, one borne of true _emotion_, makes that impossible."

Skon pointed his gray eyes to her and was about to counter her argument when a bleep interrupted them. Despite still feeling ill, she swiftly walked in front of the terminal and watched it fade from black. Admiral Gardner was on the other end.

"Ambassador," he said.

"Your decision?"

"There are many Romulans in the area and--"

"What is your decision?" she asked. It was unlike her to be so impolite, but emotion nagged at her – worry, concern – and her stomach still revolted.

Matt gave the smallest of faint smiles. "The Andorians volunteered to assist, but … we'd like to give them plenty of time to hatch a plan. The Romulans may suspect we'll come soon. Besides, according to the doctor on Thames, there were Vulcans on the planet. I think they can reach them in time."

"Have you spoken with Minister T'Pau about those _Vulcans_? Were they ordered there?"

"Minister T'Pau indicated she doesn't keep up with military reports. And Commanders Stek and T'Nara aren't aware of Vulcans being assigned to the area."

The Vulcan scowled, landing it at Skon who met her burning gaze, before turning back to the admiral. "It is unlike a Vulcan to simply misplace their military."

The admiral shrugged. "Minister T'Pau indicated she'd investigate and get back to us. And I'm obliged to do so."

T'Pol felt a tinge of green sting her cheeks and took three calming breaths before responding to Gardner, thanking him for his time.

"Wat?" asked Skon in Vulcan. Shran bristled at the Vulcan question, mostly because he didn't understand the language.

Speaking in English, T'Pol looked at her assistant. "Contact your sister immediately and let me know when she is reached.

"Ambassador--"

Her eyes narrowed. "Do it."

And without further ado, she asked Phlox for a lift back to her apartment and left the remainder of the council staring in confusion and disbelief. After several minutes have passed, Shran turned to Tares.

"Tarig re-nol, atra ka'tol."

Skon placed his hands behind his back. "What does that mean?"

"Never vex a woman."

---

When dawn broke Archer wiped his tired eyes, trying to keep awake. Mel had fallen asleep only hours earlier and he was doing his best to keep from waking her. Chilled, shivering under whatever ailed him, he struggled as quietly as possible to stand and made his way to the medkit. With the scanner pointed over his stomach and side, he ran the device over it and frowned at the information: gastrointestinal bleeding, cause unknown. The suggested remedy was surgery.

_Great._

Feeling the need to retch again, he made his way to the mouth of the cave and spilled the contents of his stomach, which was only bile and blood, onto the ground. Spitting, trying to shed the taste of it in his mouth, he heard a voice ring in his ears.

_Hold on.  
_

"Hold onto what?" he asked quietly to the darkness. When he checked back in the cave, Mel was still nestled against the wall, her head gingerly laying on a rock.

_Hold onto what? _he asked.

_Help will come, Jonathan. _

_T'Pol? _he asked.

_Yes. Your wound needs attention, you should tell the captain of your discomfort._

_It'd slow her down._

_It will save your life, _said a voice that sounded like T'Pol. It then added, _Do not be foolhardy._

He wiggled a finger against her ear canal, as if to clear the chamber. When the voice was silent, he sighed at his own delusion. Reaching his hand to his head, he checked his stitches and wondered just how bad his concussion was. The fact his eyes were beginning to gain focus, and he could remember the crash more clearly seemed to indicate he was improving.

_I can't be cracking up already._

_Cracking up? You must mean hallucinating. You're not. _A warmth tickled his spine. _Tell Captain Vega of your discomfort. She may be able to provide at least some assistance._

_The medical device said I needed surgery._

_I know. You should try and remain as still as possible until help arrives._

_Help is arriving? _Then cursing himself, he shooed the voice from his head. _I must wish she was here. If I'm going to die, it'd be nice to spend the last few hours I have with her._

_Ashal-veh, I also wish I was there with you. We have much to discuss when you return. And you _will _return to me._

Narrowing his eyes, he looked out into the jungle, letting his orbs dart one way and then another trying to make out a form in the night. A branch twitched and just as he was about to investigate, a hand curled around his shoulder and he shouted in response. The creature, equally startled, behind him recoiled.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you," said Mel.

Jon clutched at his heart, panting to quiet it.

Rubbing her hand along his bicep, she apologized again. "Sorry, Jon."

Nodding, he looked at her and frowned. "Did you … were you --?"

"What?"

"Were you talking to me?"

"When?

"Just now … just before you put your hand on my shoulder?"

"No." And then she frowned in return. "Why?"

His lips flattened and he attempted to straighten his body. "No reason."

"Maybe that bump on your head--"

"I'm fine. It's just--"

His words were interrupted by a snapping branch. Archer furrowed his brow and looked at Captain Vega.

"That could be the Vulcans," she whispered.

"It also could be an animal," he whispered back.

"Hello?" she said into the early morning.

Nothing returned her greeting.

Peering into the night, the two waited for a figure to come to light. When one didn't, Mel silently moved backward until she found a tiny flashlight in the medical container and swung it over to the trees. A pair of eyes blinked and the form stalked out of his hiding place.

TBC


	29. Chapter 29

Peering into the darkness, watching the torch hit the foliage in front of them, Archer gasped as he saw the light shine on a creature with six inch fangs and beady red eyes.

"Don't move," Mel said before he could say the same thing.

"I don't suppose you have your phase pistol?" he asked.

"No."

Out of the black, the creature stalked forward – a growl leaving its lips. The closer it crept, the better they could see the rest of this animal. It had ebony fur with green marks for camouflage, short. With a four-foot long body, teeming with powerful leg muscles as if it could leap on them in a single instant, Jon wondered if it could tear their flesh apart with its enormous claws. While looking at it, Archer was reminded of a cross between a leopard and a panther.

"Maybe it works like with bears," she said. "Maybe we should wave our arms and try and scare it away."

"I don't know," he said. "You have a sedative in that medkit?"

"Yeah."

"Maybe one of us could get close enough to give it to him."

"We may need it," she said.

Disregarding his suggestion, she waved her hands over her head and yelled – it was a high-pitched squeal, one that echoed in the cave and spilled out at the creature until it flattened its ears. Archer, even though feeling worse for wear, joined in as the animal backed away, cowering into the underbrush.

When the threat was over, the smaller woman pushed a lock of her black hair behind her ear and produced a smirk, one that told him that she was quite pleased with herself.

"I guess we've just proved that the Brownies were better than Cub Scouts," she said. The smudge on her cheek, one still left there from Thames crash, perked up with a little more gusto as her smile widened.

"I guess so," he said.

Attempting to give a smile back, he sat down gingerly, trying to keep from expelling his stomach again. The look on his face must've worried her, and she leaned in a little removing the grin that was plastered there.

"You okay?" she asked.

"Fine," he said. "Just tired."

"Well no going to sleep." Sitting across from she looked out of the cave and pointed at the first spark of light in the jungle. It'd be sunrise in less than an hour. "You were supposed to keep me up. That was the agreement."

"You need your rest," he said.

He fell quiet as his body quivered under his ailment, causing goose bumps to form over his arms and his teeth begin to chatter.

"You cold?" she asked.

Clenching his teeth and willing his body to obey, he spoke through them. "I'm fine."

Narrowed dark eyes stared at his, and she inspected him for a moment longer. Reaching the back of her hand to his forehead, she left it there a few seconds and then rested it against his left cheek to feel the flush of his skin. A frown spilled on her lips immediately.

She said, "You're burning up."

"I'm fine."

Ignoring him, she got to her medical kit and then waved her scanner over his body and grimaced at the display.

"You have internal bleeding," she said.

"I'm okay."

She sighed. "I want to see your stomach."

"Huh?"

"Take off your uniform," she said. The look on his face must've conveyed his resolve to leave it on, and she spoke up again. "Unless you'd like me to cut it off you?"

When he didn't respond fast enough, she pointed to the medkit. "There are some scissors in there."

Grimacing, he eventually unzipped his coveralls and pulled it down past his stomach and then glaring at the captain, unbuttoned each of the black buttons to his undershirt, and then removed that and his tank. After being instructed to lie down, cold hands passed over his diaphragm and then gently poked at his side until he winced. She took her scanner and ensured that was indeed the spot, which buzzed with annoyance to confirm.

"I've seen you thrown up a few times – any blood in your vomit?" she asked.

He rolled his eyes as she pushed a little harder into his side, encouraging the answer to come quickly.

"Yes," he said.

"Your side is warm," she said.

"Your hands are cold."

"Well, cold is what you need; it'll prolong the surgery. I hope one of the Vulcans is a doctor."

Opening a packet from the bag, she unveiled a device that looked like a stick and then shook and cracked it open before shoving it against his belly. He shivered at the concentrated ice pack. Grabbing some of the tape available, she stretched it over his skin and secured it in place.

"We got four more. We should probably give you a new one every four hours," she said. "Maybe that'll hold you until we can get to the Vulcans."

Archer played with the tape, noticing with dismay, it covered some of the hair on his stomach. _It's going to be need to be replaced every four hours. _He imagined sitting through having hair ripped out and curled his lip into a sneer._ That's going to hurt._

"Can you sit up?" she asked.

He struggled to do so and reached for his tank to put it back on just as she reached to provide it to him; their hands touched for a second.

"Sorry," he said, keeping his hand on his shirt.

"Sure," she said, moving her hand to tuck a piece of hair her ear.

In silence, he put on his shirt, then pulled up – carefully – his coveralls and zipped them closed as she beamed at him. Although it'd been a while since a woman had showered him with attention, T'Pol wasn't so effusive, he wondered if Mel was harboring something for him. _Maybe a crush? _Waving away the idea as just his ego, he watched as she walked away to get more water.

-----

Ever since T'Pol had returned home, she'd been meditating. Her emotions, the result of a bond with a human, were too close to the surface and needed to be suppressed. Sucking in the incense, driving Jonathan, his wounds, the woman he was with and his attempt at survival from her mind, she sat on her mat.

_He is unschooled in our bond, _she thought. Flailing at her through most of her meditation were his emotions and she worked to control each of them as they bubbled to her mind: fear, concern and camaraderie amongst others.

As she breathed, unable to center herself, she heard the comm beep. Skon was on the other side.

"As you requested, I have contacted my sister."

"Thank you," she said. "Put her through."

Skon, instead of following her request, waited. "May I be candid?"

She was about to decline, when he took the silence as his cue to say something.

He said, "T'Pau will have difficulty listening to a passionate plea, one from an ambassador under her employ who is upset. Instead, she may be swayed by logic and reason."

"You're concerned I am too emotional right now to talk with her?"

"Are you?"

T'Pol looked at the candle lit next to her mat and then took a cleansing breath. "Perhaps I am … too emotional, but this cannot wait."

Nodding, Skon's image faded and T'Pau's filled the screen. Taking her aide's advice, she bowed to her Vulcan minister and then spoke in Vulcan to the woman.

"Greetings," said T'Pol. Her fingers formed in a V and T'Pau showed her palm while producing the same greeting. Like a Vulcan, she got straight to the heart of matters. "I spoke with Admiral Gardner. He indicated you may have military forces on a planet in the same solar system as Romulus. Rather, he said you may, but you are unsure."

T'Pau's face remained stoic.

T'Pol said, "Admiral Archer and Captain Vega have crash landed on that planet, one that I believe has Romulans … not Vulcans."

T'Pau was silent.

The ambassador was frustrated, but tried not to display it. "The doctor from the Thames indicated that Vulcans are on that planet, and yet neither Commander Stek or T'Nara have information that other Vulcans are in the perimeter. Commander Stek is one of the most knowledgeable commanders, and would have information if we deployed troops there."

T'Pau said, "I do not receive daily reports."

"Minister, you told me that you caught Romulan spies, like V'Las, that look like us. It seems possible that the humans could have encountered _Romulans_ … not Vulcans."

"I say again: I do not know."

"It is a matter of life and death for Admiral Archer." T'Pau seemed indifferent, so T'Pol called on an old score. "Vulcan owes him for helping retrieve the Kir'Shara."

"Owe him?"

T'Pol straightened, narrowing her eyes. "Yes."

"_That _is a human sentiment. It was logical to assist us then."

"It was logical for a man who distrusted Vulcans to help us retrieve an artifact that our priests, scholars and scientists have called, 'the greatest discovery we have ever known'? I don't think so."

"You are letting your friendship for him blind you."

_So, Skon did not tell her I am bonded to him. _"T'Pau, I owe him my life."

"And you owe Vulcan your life. You have sworn yourself, and your loyalty to your planet, and you will obey. Thee are Vulcan. Thy heart is Vulcan. Thy blood – Vulcan."

Inside T'Pol's own mind a war waged, one she would never imagine. Even as a friend, she owed Archer – he'd helped her more times than she could count and would do so in an instant again. More now, she was his bondmate – a step closer to what humans call marriage and yet beyond that step. And yet, Vulcan was her birth planet, where she referred to when someone asked her about home; it was why she still meditated – even all these years – as difficult as it was.

She tensed and straightened her spine. "I am Vulcan. I am also his friend."

The lead minister of Vulcan leaned in. "You will have to determine whether your allegiance to Archer is greater than your loyalty to Vulcan."

Before the screen faded to black, T'Pol asked, "Would it be possible for you to lend a ship to assist them. They need to be transported off the planet quickly; Admiral Archer has been wounded."

T'Pau's lips became a straight line. "Perhaps. I shall meet with the other ministers and inform you of my decision."

And then the screen faded to black.

Understanding emotions as she did these days – after more than ten years among humans, she knew sometimes what they were thinking simply by reading their expressions. Watching T'Pau, she knew the minister felt uneasy, as if she didn't think the people on that planet were Vulcans … and it told her everything she needed to know.

Sitting down on her bed, she tried to reach out to the man she had a bond with, remembering moments they had together – things he would be able to relate to, things that would touch him. A laundry list of moments presented itself: him picking at her food with chopsticks he was barely able to use, enduring limitless teasing from Shran, and their last moments on the Potomac together. She also saw in her mind's eye, moments when she'd cried thinking he was dead, when she'd attempted to dissuade him from fighting Shran to the death and when he'd kissed her when she'd emerged from the rubble of the once Council building.

And then a simple memory came to her.

_It was the first night, as a couple, in her abode. After attending funerals of friends, the two entered her apartment hand-in-hand with heavy hearts. She led him to the dining room table and reached over to pour two glasses of wine as he picked out some music from her small collection. It was jazz; and she heaved an internal sigh that he would by random pick one of her favorites. Extending a glass to him, he gave a thoughtful nod to the city, one he could see from her window._

"_When I was a boy, I used to think the city lights looked like stars."_

_A hand snaked back into his and she nodded. "I can understand the comparison."_

_He stared down at her smiling and then broke her grip to wrap his arm around her shoulder, bringing her into his chest. _

"_I never thought it would be this way," he said._

"_So many people?" she asked. Her head turned back to the window at the twinkling lights._

"_No, you and me."_

_She focused back on him. _

_He said, "There was a time …. I've had feelings for you for some time."_

_She'd already known that from her meld – she'd seen the initial aching of his soul, which had subsided with time, and could only nod._

_He said, "In a way, you being with Trip made things easier for me."_

"_You cared for me all those years, even when Trip and I were together?"_

_He sighed. Two green eyes stared into hers and it prompted her to do something unVulcan. She stood on tiptoe and kissed his lips, gently – pushing her tongue between her lips. And when the kiss was over, she grabbed his hand and held it at her waist as he'd done at Shran's party. _

_Looking into his eyes, she kicked off her shoes and gently guided her feet onto his as a smile overtook his entire face. Without waiting for even a beat or asking what she wanted to do, he squeezed her to his chest and they danced._

_Dancing led to more kisses, becoming more passionate as the night wore on, and finally she gripped his hand and led him toward her room. Just as they made it into the archway, he took her elbow and softly pulled her to him._

"_I love you," he said. _

_They woke up the next morning, without the interruption of Shran or any other visitor and lay in each other's arms. The Vulcan guided her finger along his nose and chin as he playfully nipped. A slight startle from her made him grin. _

"_Jonathan, you said something last night – that things were easier for you when Trip and I were involved," she said. "I've been thinking about that this morning. Easier how?"_

_He blew out a sigh. "As your superior officer, I couldn't exactly show you my feelings. It felt good, in some ways, to know that someone cared about you like that … and could show you."_

_A knitted brow formed between her eyes. "In our meld, there was something …."_

_As he understood what she meant right away, he nodded. "I feel like I've loved you all my life."_

_Although Vulcan, she understood the words and closed her eyes, letting them ruminate and wash over her. _

He seemed to be telling her then that perhaps he thought of her as a soulmate. Reaching through their bond and several light years, she hoped to let him know she believed the Vulcans on the planet were Romulans, even if it meant defying T'Pau's request of secrecy.

---

They'd already been making good time. Jon had an arm over Mel's shoulder as they walked more than fifteen miles, sweat clinging to their bodies. In a clearing, when they knew they were safe, they took a brief rest and sipped at water she kept in a small vessel from the medkit. They'd both been attempting to sip it, rather than gulp as he'd wanted to do.

"We don't have too far to go," said Mel.

Nodding, Archer wiped a bead of perspiration from his brow.

"You doing okay?" she asked.

"Never better," he lied.

A small smirk came over her face, but he could tell she let the comment go. "By my calculations we should be there before nightfall."

He remained silent, something in his gut still told him this was a bad idea.

She grinned at him. "When I get to the Vulcan camp, I'm going to drink as much water as I can, take a bath and put on fresh clothes."

Archer produced a small chuckle. "They'll probably insist on the bath first."

She laughed, too. "Probably. It'd be good to have a Vulcan doctor take a look at you."

"Well, I've had a fantastic, albeit pushy one, right here."

A blush came over her face and she gazed at him for a few minutes until he looked away. Licking his lips, he glanced out of the corner of his eyes and watched as she bent her head and looked down at the ground. After a few minutes of silence, and when she was through playing with the dirt below her – presumably thinking – she spoke again. 

"I should scout ahead. Jon, stay here."

He let his body lay out onto the grass below him and looked up at the sky, the blues were strikingly vivid – like Earth's ocean. A cloud floated by and he attempted to determine its shape when memories flooded his mind.

_Streaming images finally landed on one – he was dancing with T'Pol, or at least swaying to the music after a difficult day of mostly attending funerals of friends and colleagues. It was only their second day of their relationship, but he'd started telling her how much she meant to him – how much he loved her._

He'd remembered the moment, and felt a little embarrassed by it. He probably shouldn't have told her he'd been harboring feelings off and on for her for so many years, even when one of his closest friends was in a relationship with her. Another mistake was admitting there was a connection made, even as he cursed at her about his volatile emotions, threatening to knock her on her ass, on their first meeting. Jon didn't believe in love at first site, but he did believe in sparks, and the one he got from the haughty female Vulcan in Starfleet Medical had made his toes curl. It was that electricity that had no doubt caused him to be more churlish to her when she first came aboard, and for months afterward.

It took a while to determine how he felt. He loved all his crew, even their quirks – Malcolm's incessant worrying and formality even the most casual of circumstances, Hoshi's fear of every little noise the ship made and her sassiness, Travis' giant smile and eagerness to get himself in danger …. It stood to reason that he would love his first officer.

The day he realized that love for his science officer was also based on physical attraction was disastrous and humiliating. It was enough to keep the feelings that continued to grow and build firmly locked up so that he wouldn't act with such stupidity ever again. He'd even convinced himself those feelings were gone, and yet during the most arduous of times, he was reminded they never vanished entirely.

"_Jonathan."_

Waking him from his musings, he sat up to see no one there. It was T'Pol's voice again and this time it was clear; he could almost feel her breath against his ear. He was about to rifle through the medkit to retrieve the scanner to see what the hell caused him to continue to hear T'Pol's voice when it spoke again.

"_You are not hallucinating."_

He sighed, hand on the scanner and waved it over himself.

"_There is important information for us to discuss."_

"_Shut up," he told the voice. _Looking at the scanner he frowned; his concussion was on the mend and he'd suffered no other head trauma.

He felt an eyebrow raise, as if a small amount of ire bubbled through his blood.

"_Sorry," _he felt compelled to say. It made the ire subside immediately.

"_Before you left, I performed a series of mind melds."_

He waited, although he didn't believe the voice.

"_I wanted to determine if there was a bond."_

A warmth traveled along his skin and he blushed for a reason he wasn't quite sure.

"_A bond has been formed."_

"_T'Pol told me it hadn't."_

"_I was … mistaken." _

There was still a part of him that believed this conversation came from his delusional mind.

_T'Pol's voice said, "Look to Surak's memories. Although we may not have as strong a bond as he felt, one exists."_

Closing his eyes, his brain instantly took him to someplace … a place he'd never seen before. Sandy footsteps led to stairs and a large gong. He picked up the mallet and then rang it to welcome the wedding party. A woman dressed in a swirling purples sauntered up to him as tinny bells rattled in the background and men with ancient weapons joined.

Words tumbled to his ears.

"_Krus, heh wi worla krus," _thought Archer, even though he was unaware of what the words meant.

"_Yes," said the voice of T'Pol. "Parted, and yet never parted." _

Before he could try and wrap his mind around exactly what this meant, or would mean, her voice interrupted him.

"_I am working with Admiral Gardner to rescue you. However, it appears it may be as long as a week before help can arrive." _Archer got the idea maybe it'd even be more. _"I understand that you have seen Vulcans on your planet."_

"_Yes."_

And just as he was about to hear more, he felt a hand shake him, rattling him alert. The connection he felt was still there, but the words muffled under Mel's voice and his loss of concentration.

"You all right?" asked Mel.

"Huh?" he asked.

"I've been trying to get your attention for the past two minutes, but you've been staring off into space."

"I was thinking," he said. _No sense in making her believe I've lost my mind._

"Your ready to continue?" she asked. "Looks like we might just make it tonight."

Nodding, he tried to push himself off the ground and when he failed, she helped him up. A grimace overtook his face as he landed on his feet. Mel crossed her arms and pointed at his side, chastising him for not allowing her to change ice packs. When he argued with her, his side rebelled and he found himself giving in and unzipping his uniform while lifting his shirt. She ripped at the tape quickly, something that still caused him give a small yelp and look over at the hair that accompanied its removal. Her fingers gently glided over the angry skin and she gazed up at him, an apology in her eyes, before putting placing a new ice pack at his stomach.

"I don't know if I can take this three more times," he said, zipping up his uniform.

"I should've put something on there a few kilometers ago, but I remember a stubborn admiral who insisted he was okay."

He frowned, but before he could argue, she took his arm and tugged him forward.

"Come on."


	30. Chapter 30

Shran shuffled his feet in front of the door and knocked again, this time much louder – hard enough to nearly bruise his knuckles. When he didn't get the immediate attention he believed he deserved, he put an ear to the portal and wiggled his antennae.

"Vulcan, are you home?" Leaning into the frame of the door, he pressed his lip at the edge of the door, hoping his voice would escape inside. "T'Pol!"

Barely hearing footsteps, he stood upright and folded his hands across his chest, waiting for her to finally let him in. When the door swung open, he saw the Vulcan – her hair askew and dark green bags under her eyes; it made him soften.

"You look like something the tarpig spat up," he said.

An eyebrow didn't flicker at his bait, which is why he pushed himself inside and past her. His eyes landed on a candle spilling wax onto the floor as if she'd been sitting on her mat the entire day meditating instead of resting. She must've seen his disappointment because she spoke up.

"I had to contact him," she said.

"The Pink Skin?"

"Yes."

"Dr. Phlox told you to take it easy."

"Jonathan is in grave danger. I must reach him." Shran noticed she turned her back and was about to sit down again.

"He can take care of himself," he said. Reaching his hand along her bicep, he dragged her over to her table all the while noticing she was too pooped to successfully break his grip.

"What Scare said is true, isn't it?" he asked. At the twitch of her lips, he corrected himself. "Skon, I mean."

"To what are you referring?" she asked.

"You're being affected by Archer's wounds." She was about to shake her head and deny it, so he leaned closer, his antennae lurching forward, threateningly.

"It's true." He watched her fill her lungs before divulging more. "It is also affecting my ability to suppress my emotions."

He knew that was true firsthand; he saw the outbursts in the meeting room earlier, underscoring her statement. A shaky Vulcan hand pushed at a lock of her hair and the blue man shook his head.

"Affecting the ability to suppress your emotions?" he asked. "I was wondering why you seemed more likable today."

T'Pol closed her eyes and his teasing smile vanished from his face.

"Maybe you should do what Scamp said and break the bond you have with Archer."

"It has not come to that yet."

"If it comes to it, you should. The Pink Skin wouldn't want it any other way."

She was silent, and the Andorian got the idea she'd die before breaking that connection with him. In a way, he admired steadfast loyalty just as he promised himself that he'd work with Skon to keep her from destroying herself.

"If that is all--" she said.

She was about to push herself from the table when Shran spoke up.

"Skon indicated your meeting with T'Pau didn't go well."

"No," she said. "I asked if Vulcan would assist in helping Jonathan and Captain Vega, but she did not commit resources to the endeavor."

"I made a case to General Krag, asking him to send a ship to the planet. He agreed."

Relief crossed every feature of her body, and for a second he thought he saw tears begin to form in her eyes before being blinked away.

It made the blue man frown. "Don't get your hopes up. We don't have transporters on any of the ships in the vicinity, something the general insisted on … and with the number of Romulan forces in the area, I'm not sure I blame him."

"What is the solution?" she asked.

"We have a prototype ship with transporters that has just been built – the Tanton. Krag suggested we use that vessel."

"How long will it take to reach them?" she asked.

"Two weeks."

"Jonathan will perish before they reach him."

"I wish I could do better," he said. His antennae drooped as he watched T'Pol's lip turn down ever so slightly. "I'm sorry."

"I appreciate you inquiring," she said.

A small smile shone on his face. "I also asked Krag to talk with Minister T'Pau. He agreed."

It made T'Pol's eyebrow creep up and Shran nodded at the momentous occasion, one that forced him to call in an old favor. He could count on one hand the number of times the two leaders talked. Despite now being allies, there was no love lost between Vulcans and Andorians – even high-ranking officials.

"Probably won't help, but … you never know," he said.

"When you joined the Council, I didn't--"

"Water under the ice flow." He waved his hand cutting her off. "Let's not get sentimental. We both owe the Pink Skin favors." He was about to embellish, sticking his hand into the air to denote he and Archer were even, but the tiredness on the Vulcan's face kept his mouth still.

Pushing himself from the table, he focused on her. "You could repay me by getting some rest. You look like you need it."

She was about to argue, when he continued. "Don't be such a stubborn karplog."

He made his way to door, looking behind at the candle still dripping onto her floor resisting the urge to blow it out.

"Srap, Tares and I visited Gral in the hospital today. He said Phlox is going to release him tomorrow afternoon."

"That is good news."

"He also said he convinced one of the Ithanites to come to Earth and meet us."

"Impressive. Which one – Ki'ar?"

"That's the one."

"I never thought an Ithanite would come to Earth."

"Me neither. You can talk to Gral after I pick you up to take you to see Dr. Phlox tomorrow; he might be able to give you the good news himself." And before she could decline the suggestion that he would take her to the doctor, he added a few words. "If I don't your aide will. I know he lives down the hall from you."

"Very well."

"Good. I'll be here at 10. I'm serious about getting some sleep."

With that, he left. Walking to his shuttle, he smiled to himself and wondered when T'Pol had become such a trusted friend. He never would've guessed that was possible … even a year ago. As he climbed into his vehicle his grin waned. He'd be coming home to Tares and Jhamel again tonight, and like last night, he'd undoubtedly walk into them discussing him – his personality traits, body and embarrassing stories.

_Maybe I'll go and visit Gral again,_ he thought.

---

Footsteps transformed from pain to agony as night began to descend when Archer realized that it was becoming unbearable to travel. Collapsing to his knees, he looked up at Captain Vega and conceded defeat. She ran the scanner over him. Frown deepening as if the results displayed gave bad news.

"Jon, we have maybe have another two kilometers to go."

"I can't," he said, hoarsely. For a moment, he thought he should've stopped two kilometers ago, but willed himself forward.

Mel stooped over as if to throw him over her shoulder and he tossed his head from side to side.

"Don't," he said, knowing it could cause him to gag instantly. "Go ahead and go on."

"I can't leave you here."

"I'll be all right."

"The hell you will," she said. "I'm not leaving you."

He was about to debate her again, when his stomach revolted and he vomited. Dizzy, he tried to stay focused, but realized it was nearly impossible. His body was shot; he was dead tired, more weary than he could ever remember being. It had taken all his concentration to put one leg in front of the other on the long march here, and now that attention was gone. Zapped.

"I just need a little sleep," he said.

She crouched down next to him and lowered herself to the ground, before holding the water out so that he could rinse his mouth.

"It's been twenty-four hours," he said.

After a few seconds, she nodded – resolved – and he lowered himself to the ground.

"I wish there was shelter somewhere around here. Can you stay awake for another thirty minutes while I look around?"

"Sure," he lied.

"I'll be right back."

The moment she left, he felt his eyes drift closed and the whispers he'd been hearing all afternoon become clear. The breath tickled his ear.

"_Jonathan."_

"_Yeah?" he asked. His voice, even inside his head sounded worn-out. _

_He could feel relief settle along his bones and sloped his lips up at it; it was the first pleasurable thing he'd felt in hours. _

"_Shran indicated Krag has volunteered a ship, but that it would take two weeks to reach you."_

"_You don't think I'll make it."_

_Exasperation in her voice, she agreed. "No."_

_When he thought he could feel a frown develop over her face, as if he could run his fingers over it, he shrugged. "Well, it was nice of him to try."_

"_I'm still waiting for Minister T'Pau to respond."_

"_I know you're doing your best."_

_As if he could feel her laying next to him, a warm body that smelled vaguely like cinnamon mixed with nutmeg, he reached out and for a second could almost feel her hair slip between his fingers. It was a bit of heaven._

"_You no longer believe you're delusional?" asked T'Pol._

"_I don't know. I guess I don't care." A wry smile played on his lips. "Besides, I'm starting to get used to your voice rummaging around in my head."_

"_It's different than holding Surak in your mind."_

_He gave a mild chuckle at the comment. "With Surak, it's like trying to remember a lost thought. Faint memories, mild smells, words that are on the tip of your tongue …. It seems to hear you all I need is a little focus. Although, all day I've been feeling like there's something you need to tell me."_

"_Yes," she said. She paused, as if preparing herself for a difficult conversation; it made his mirth disappear. "You once asked me what the connection between Vulcans and Romulans are."_

_He waited._

"_The Romulans are our ancient brethren."_

"_I don't understand."_

"_Before the time of the Awakening, Romulans and Vulcans lived together. During Surak's time, they left our planet and sought another where they could live in emotion. Romulus. I know nothing of what they look like, what their technology is like – other than what I saw on Enterprise or what their motives are. After Surak, Vulcan cut all ties to them."_

_It caused him to open his eyes. "Why didn't you tell me?" He'd really wanted to ask why she didn't tell him sooner, and she answered that one instead._

"_T'Pau only made this information known to me within the past six months, and she asked that I keep this information private. I wanted to tell you."_

"_You didn't trust me?"_

_She was silent, and to combat it anger bubbled inside him. Then the inquiry became a confirmation. "You didn't trust me." _

"_Believe me. I wanted to tell you," she said._

"_I gave you plenty of opportunities. I asked you about it. Specifically." Then he accused her. "You lied to me."_

"_I did so to protect my planet."_

"_From me?"_

"_You would tell Starfleet."_

"_Don't you know me better than that?" he asked. Worse than the anger was the disappointment, and he could feel her squirm under it._

"_Jonathan, you don't understand. This secret would cause unrest among my people. It may even cause civil war. The consequences were too great to leak it to anyone."_

"_Don't you think I would've understood? Don't you think I would've protected you?"_

"_I couldn't take that risk."_

"_There was no risk. Ashal-veh, don't you know by now what I feel?"_

"_I didn't know that _then_," she said._

_And for a moment, he saw the exact moment T'Pau told her. He'd seen T'Pol asking to tell him, and the minister declining outright. It hurt her, mostly because she felt like she was being disloyal, even if she agreed with the assessment._

_He asked, "Even after all your years on Enterprise, did you really think I would betray your confidence?"_

_He could almost see the Vulcan bend her head, lowering to her chest, under the weight of his accusation. A sigh left his lips and a hand darted to his sweaty hair. _

"_I did not intend to hurt you. I did what I thought was best," she said. _

_He was silent. _

_She said, "Perhaps I made a mistake."_

"_Yeah." It was all he could utter under the circumstances. A deep breath filled his lungs and he blew it out quickly. _

"_You will forgive me?" she asked. He could see into her mind that she'd in one way or another tried to tell him ever since – that she'd wanted to convey the truth, especially now when it could mean his life. She was willing to cause her planet doom to save him, and that's why he would always forgive her. _

_She asked again. "Can you forgive me?"_

_The words, even in his mind sounded sweet and fraught with concern that this could mean the end to his love. He shook his head at the Vulcan, as if she didn't understand human emotions – even after all this time – at all._

"_I already have," he said._

"_But, you seemed angry and--"_

"_I'm glad you told me, T'Pol. I just wish you'd said something sooner."_

_He watched images come to his mind, and then frowned more. It wasn't just civil unrest that made the Vulcans nervous, there was a greater thread. "You think Vulcans would want to reunify?"_

"_They are our ancient brethren. They, too, are Vulcan."_

_He said, "Vulcans will find out eventually."_

"_Yes, but hopefully by that time Vulcans will have translated all of the Kir'Shara. By then, my people will understand – truly – what it means to be Vulcan. And perhaps by that point, Romulus would embrace peace."_

_He wanted their lips to connect and despite imagining himself in her apartment with jazz playing quietly in the background as her candles burned themselves extinct, he didn't place his mouth on hers. They were both too weary to keep the connection open for such platitudes._

"_You seem tired," he said. "You should get some sleep."_

_Concern knitted in her brow. _

"_You don't need to stay up for me. I'll be all right," he said. _

_She said, "Jonathan, there's something else – we've discovered that Romulans are disguising themselves as us."_

"_The Vulcans we saw …."_

"_Could be Romulans. V'Las was one."_

"_Their bio-signs registered as Vulcans."_

"_As our ancient brethren, they may have similar internal structures …. We don't know what they look like."_

"_We're two kilometers from their camp."_

_She said, "Then you must leave. Head back to the cave."_

"_It took us all day to get here."_

"_I tried to warn you earlier."_

_He remembered Mel shaking him alert and then noticed irritation tingle along his skin. Furrowing his brow, he stared at the Vulcan as she turned away from him._

"_You're jealous?" he asked._

"_No more so than you are of my aide, Skon."_

_That wiped a bit of the confusion off his face. He'd seen into her mind a Vulcan roughly her age that seemed to hang on her every word … a man he knew she thought was attractive._

_She said, "I'll contact you again when I hear from T'Pau."_

_Before she could end the connection they had, he held her arm and a tingle climbed up his spine. "You don't have anything to be jealous about, T'Pol."_

"_I know. And neither do you."_

"_I know."_

Without touching lips the link came to an end, and he looked up at the sky – a purple veil draped over the bright pinks of twilight, and the moon gleamed in the background along with tiny stars, twinkling. Sitting up, he realized that Mel was gone longer than thirty minutes. When he struggled to stand, something that was more of a chore than he intended, Mel approached. There was a gleam in her eye and her face was alive with excitement.

"I saw a couple of Vulcans not far from here!"

"Mel, about that--"

"We're finally safe!" she said. She threw her arms around him, hugging him. "I'll help you walk the last bit--"

"Did you make contact with them?" he asked.

Her glee didn't vanish as she stuffed medical equipment strewn on the ground into the box. "I tried to, but I couldn't get their attention before they left. Although, I thought they were looking at me." The grin waned only for a second.

"They saw you?"

She said, "I thought they did. Although, I'm sure if they noticed me, they would've said something."

Turning his head, he looked around the jungle – they were in a clearing, but foliage surrounded them as did the shade of night; Romulans could easily be hiding in the brush.

"Throw your arm around me and--"

"No."

"What?" She grabbed his arm to sling it over her neck when he shirked from her grip.

"No," he said.

Eyes glared. "You're going to give me the gut feeling explanation again?"

"What if they're Romulans in disguise," he said. It wasn't a question; it was a statement.

"They're going to a lot of trouble to conceal their identity as Vulcans."

He'd wanted to tell Melanie everything he'd learned from T'Pol, and maybe for the first time since he was told the secret, he understood why the Vulcan kept it from him. Now, he was in a position to lie to the captain in order to protect T'Pol and her people.

"I'm just saying, we should be cautious."

"Vulcan is our ally," said Mel. "What is there to be cautious about?"

"Doesn't it seem odd that the Vulcans are on a planet that is surrounded by Romulan vessels. They've been holding the delegates and the members of the Excelsior crew hostage--"

"You don't know they were holding them hostage."

"They were tied up!"

"I'm sure there's a logical explanation."

"And what about our people being fired on?" asked Archer.

"We don't know the Vulcans fired on them."

"Who else is on this planet?"

"We don't know, we only saw Vulcan bio-signs."

"That's right. So it stands to reason these Vulcans are the ones that kidnapped our people and fired at your security officer, killing him."

"We don't know if he's dead."

"Your transporter technician couldn't find human bio-signs. Your security officer and the MACOs are gone."

She knitted her brow. "I know what this is _really _about."

"Huh?"

Stuffing her hands across her chest, she narrowed her eyes. "I'd heard that you had a grudge against the Vulcans, but I never would've believed it until now."

"I don't have a grudge against the Vulcans."

"I'd heard your father's work was shut down and that seemed to spur a hatred in you."

"That was a long time ago. I had a Vulcan science officer for ten years and--"

"Whatever prejudice you have, I think it'd be wise for you to bury it, _sir_."

"Listen, _Captain_, I don't have any prejudice." Her lip quivered, like she had something to say about that, so he continued before she got the opportunity to retort. "We're done discussing this. I'm giving you an order: We're leaving this vicinity and we're heading back to the cave."

"The cave! You've got to be kidding!"

Jon's jaw clenched and Mel began a tirade that stirred the wildlife – birds left neighboring trees. Obscenities left her mouth in a string, and she accused him of sabotaging their rescue based on some hair-brained gut feeling and a nearly forty-year vendetta against the Vulcans. He was trying to keep his fury in check, letting her get it off her chest, but the allegations stacking up that he _hated _T'Pol's people began to make his hands clench. After she continued for another two minutes, Archer'd finally had enough. Red-faced, he squared his shoulders to her.

"I really don't give a damn what you think, Captain. And I have half a mind to write your ass up when we reach Earth."

She opened her mouth, but he shut her down immediately. "I'm not trying to sabotage our rescue; I want to get off this God-forsaken planet as much as you. And as for hating the Vulcans …. You don't know what the hell you're talking about."

"Sir," she said.

"And how dare you accuse me of it. Want to get personal? Well, I've heard some things, too. I read in your report previous commanders thought you were a hot head and that moniker nearly kept you from being promoted. Forrest seemed to think that passion could be channeled, and I'm _hoping _he was right."

"Sir?"

"I'm not finished. Part of a captain's, or any rank in Starfleet for that matter's, obligation is to follow the chain of command. I understand you may not like an order you receive, but you're duty-bound is to fulfill it."

"Sir?"

"So, unless you'd like to be busted back to Commander, you'll follow my orders – to the letter, ma'am – and you'll do so without …." A wave of dizziness passed over him and he felt something trickle down his chin. Wiping his hand over his lips, he realized it was blood.

"I was trying to tell you," she said. It was softer, despite her cheeks still being flushed from her rant and his dressing down.

Everything went black.

----

T'Pol had difficulty waking up, and when she did she instantly felt her side turn to fire. With great effort, she pushed herself off the bed and grabbed her abdomen.

_Jonathan._

Glancing at the clock, she realized how late it was – already past 0900 hours and less than an hour before Shran would barge into her room and demand to take her to see Dr. Phlox. Woozy and a little nauseous, she made her way into the bathroom and looked in the mirror. Her face was flushed, as if she had a fever, and her eyes held dark circles. A shower, a lukewarm one, makeup and tea couldn't seem to even her complexion or grab her focus. And when she greeted the Andorian at the door, he wore a puckered brow.

In the shuttle on the way to Starfleet Medical, Shran raved about Tares and Jhamel becoming friends, walking in as they were telling stories about him – something that began to dampen the need to be tyla-tora with his aide. Attention waning she stared out the window at the buildings below her, each one whizzing by. There was a dread in her soul – her katra – that the man she had a bond with would perish in the next few days, or sooner. His vital signs, she knew, were crashing – blood pressure dropping and heart rate slowing. That wasn't the worst of it. Even in his unconsciousness, the agony of his wounds had racked his body making him twist, tremble and sweat. While she was in bed last night, she'd tossed and turned under some of that pain, hoping if she shared it, his life would be prolonged.

A hand reached out to touch her arm, waking her from her musings.

"T'Pol?" asked Shran.

"Yes?" she said.

"You're shaking."

It took a great amount of self-control to keep from breaking down or screaming in pain.

"We're almost there," said Shran.

It took less than three minutes to arrive at the facility, and when they landed – directly in front of the building, T'Pol wondered if Phlox had been alerted as she day dreamed; the doctor was waiting for her outside with a gurney and wheeled her quickly into the building.

In her daze, she heard voices above her – faint figures melding into the light fixtures and ceiling.

"How long has she been like this?" said Phlox.

"I don't know," said Shran. "She seemed pre-occupied when in the shuttle. Even when I went to pick her up, she looked like kal."

"Skinny?" said Gral. "Can she hear us?"

"She has some inflammation in her liver and spleen, but otherwise she seems fine," said Phlox.

"Then why is she quivering?" asked Shran.

Drowning out the voices around her, she closed her eyes to focus on her mate. She would have to be stronger, strong enough for the both of them, to keep him alive. And as she blew a deep breath from her lungs, something she barely noticed halted the conversation above her, she reached for every gram of vigor she possessed. Ancient words mingled in her mind like runes, presenting themselves in spiraling symbols written on parchment.

_Yes._

She would meditate, enter a healing trance, to help him focus his energy and her own. They would be in that state together. But, before allowing herself to reach a deep sleep, she needed to do one last thing.

The words from her lips sounded raspy.

"Bring me Skon," she said.

Chaos ensued above, but her mind was already drifting, preparing her body – slowing her heart, dropping her blood pressure dangerously low and seeking the concentration she would need to continue. Finally, a figure appeared before her and it leaned down.

"T'Pol?" asked Skon.

"Continue putting pressure on our government to help rescue the admiral and captain. Do what you can to assist Gral with the Ithanites. Do you understand?"

He must've known what she was gong to do, because he almost spoke harshly to her.

"What you do is illogical."

And yet, she knew he had done so himself. "On the contrary, it is the epitome of logic. I can reserve my strength and his if I enter this trance."

"You could perish."

"He has given his life for me many times before; it is a risk I must take."

There was silence, and she finally asked – eyes beginning to lose their focus. "You will do as I ask?"

"Of course," he said.

And with that, her eyes closed knowing they would not open in days – if ever. The catatonic state of the Vulcan healing trance overcame her and instantly the words of her friends were snuffed out. The only voice she heard other than her own, was from her mate. In her mind's eye, she lifted two fingers to his and whispered a promise.

_I won't leave you._

_He shook his head in response, wearily, to indicate his displeasure at her self-sacrifice._

_Pushing him gently down to the ground, she crouched next to him. "Breathe when I breathe and be still."_

_She watched him fight, despite seeing traces of memories from Surak of the man closing his eyes before the final death throes from radiation killed him._

_She continued, "You are the middle of the ocean, and merely watch as life happens around you, without care or thought. You are limitless."_

_He fought a little, and the Vulcan raised her eyebrow at the human's natural instinct to survive._

"_You are motionless. Still. Calm and serene." Lying beside him she took his hand. "Breathe when I breathe and be still."_

----

Captain Melanie Vega looked at Jon crumpled on the ground and her brows knitted together. Despite the fact he'd just spent the past five minutes chewing her out, she looked at his countenance with fear and hope. Pulling out the scanner, she ran it over him again and noticed his body was beginning to tremble. According to the display it'd quiver more before his life extinguished. But that wouldn't be long now.

_His body is beginning to shut down. I should've never made him walk with me to find the Vulcans._

Crouching beside him, she pulled at the zipper of his uniform and lifted his shirt, trying not to let her fingers spread over his skin, and removed the ice pack. It was a ludicrous idea, she believed, to think the inflammation would simply go away; it'd been a last ditch effort. Ripping the bandage from his body, something that didn't stir him, she felt at his side. It was hot and swollen.

"What are we going to do?" she asked no one in particular.

_Should I toss him over my shoulder and head back to the cave, or disregard his order and find the Vulcans?_

His face was pained, she could see it tense even knocked out – dead to the world – as he was. Crimson had already rushed to his cheek and his lips parted to give a soft moan as blood dried at his mouth.

_Maybe we can compromise. _

Mel had located a small hut only a kilometer away. Though she hated to move him, if he was concerned about Romulans disguised as Vulcans – an idea she thought was preposterous – at least getting out of the clearing and heading back into the thick of the jungle would help. Carefully lifting his arm, not bothering to re-zip his uniform, she rolled the man up and onto her shoulder with a huff.

_Good thing he's thin._

Heading into the jungle, she passed foliage, ducking under giant leaves and attempting not to trip over tree roots in the pitch black of night. The moon, occasionally creeping between the clouds and squeezing through the overgrowth was unable to light her path.

After almost an hour, sure she was going the wrong way, she saw the tiny hut – a structure that looked like it had been built decades ago – rotting and near collapse – made of something that resembled bamboo. Making her way past the door, laid up against the structure, having fallen away long ago, she unraveled the admiral's form and placed it on the ground. As she settled him there, he groaned again, a word on his lips.

"What?" she asked, hoping he was coherent.

"Ashal-veh," he whispered.

The words sounded foreign, from a language not from Earth, and she wondered what he dreamt of. Mel reached for the water and shook the canister. There wasn't much left. Maybe if there was rain tonight like last night, she could collect something to filter. He could no doubt use fresh water, and so could she.

Watching him - his uniform tattered and pushed around his waist, his black undershirt equally scorched and grimy with buttons missing – she sighed. Her commanding officer was a pain in the ass, stubborn as a mule, had an ego bigger than Sol's solar system, insisted on being right all the time … and yet reeked of heroism. It could've been his noble chin or the seriousness in his eyes when he gave her commands, or it could've been the way his eyes twinkled mischievously at death and danger. Maybe it was his reputation, which was larger than the man himself. Tucking a piece of hair behind an ear, she reasoned perhaps it was none of these things that made him seem heroic, just be a crush on the man who'd generated more praise and jeers in the halls of Starfleet than any other man.

When she was a commander at HQ, she remembered him passing her in the hall – eyes as cold as steel with a grimace on his face. He'd just come back from the Expanse, gloriously successful, and from a meeting where he'd apparently spent the majority of his time shouting at Starfleet's top brass and the previous ambassador to Vulcan, Ambassador Soval. Even as he passed, in a huff, she realized how shockingly handsome he was.

That she'd never heard in the halls of Starfleet or read in the annals of Enterprise's early history.

She was long past schoolgirl fantasies – knights who fought for honor. She reasoned that her admiration, what made her heart pang, was that he'd made the decision to go down with the ship with her – despite an undoubtedly long and successful career ahead as an admiral. Nothing stirred a woman, even one as cynical as she, like self-sacrifice. He even – commanding officer - served as her pilot.

A smirk made it to her lips, one that dissipated when she watched his body shake again.

She reached her hand over his forehead, something her mother used to do when she was a girl, and felt his forehead. Boiling. Sweaty.

_Not much I can do._

Quietly sitting next to him, she zipped his coverall around him – knowing that would warm him – while placing her hand over his now and again and giving a vigorous rub. She'd learned in training that having the forearms, including the hands, warmed would increase someone's heat; it was a treatment for shock, one to use if blankets weren't available.

As she stared out into the dark, a few drops of rain smacked against the leaky roof and she breathed a sigh of relief. At least they'd have enough water to last another day. Setting out her canteen to collect some, she ventured back into the hut. Her eyes were too weary to stay open and without realizing her head drooped to dream.

---

When Skon saw T'Pol's eyes close and watched every single statistic displayed on the screen above plummet, he knew what she was attempting: the Vulcan healing trance, Hakausu Vitaya.

It made his eyebrow jump.

When injured, the Vulcan body naturally entered the state in order to survive, but he had yet to see someone attempt to throw their body into it willingly especially to save another … besides himself.

It was a practice he'd read in the Kir'Shara, a book that after pouring through had changed his life. It brought him peace after his wife's death – as much as it could at least - and caused him to seek one of the only two Vulcans to retrieve it.

Turning to Dr. Phlox, his face lined with concern, the Vulcan clasped his hands behind his back.

"She has attempted a healing trance. I only hope it will prove successful."

Shran's antennae whirled and the Tellarite, itching for a fight, pointed his long finger toward the Vulcan.

"Why didn't you stop her?" asked Gral.

"It is illogical to halt what is inevitable," he said. Pausing briefly, he turned his gaze to Dr. Phlox. "If the ambassador proves successful, she will need assistance waking from that state. And I believe, Doctor, you would find the method … distasteful. You may contact me, and I will assist you."

Without describing the method, he turned once more to the ambassador he served. Her face was peaceful, serene even and her hair fanned on the pillow.

_She was never more beautiful. _

When he accepted the position, asking his sister for assistance in changing his career, he hadn't realized he'd be working for a woman who would stir something in him. He'd heard the rumors that she was emotional and bound to the humans; but rather than become repelled, he found that intriguing. That wasn't what caused his eyes to darken when she entered the room, and it wasn't her beauty – although he believed her quite exquisite. T'Pol walked a fine line between logic and emotion, caring for her friends and the humans as she welcomed new ideas, thoughts and beliefs. She was the most open-minded Vulcan he'd ever had the pleasure of meeting.

As he watched T'Pol's breath slow, barely noticing the rise and fall of her chest, he decided to make good on his promise. Straightening, he assumed the role of ambassador.

"Ambassador Gral, I would like to discuss the Ithanite ambassador and what--"

"Skip, Vulcan's ambassador … our friend … is in dire straights, and you've been nothing but cryptic," said Shran. "I want some answers."

Gral snorted in agreement.

"I have answered you," he said with confusion. "The ambassador has entered a healing state."

"What the devil does that mean?" asked Gral.

"It means she will be catatonic until someone rouses her."

"Why did she enter this trance?" asked Shran.

"To save her bondmate." An eyebrow flickered.

"The Pink Skin?" asked Shran.

"Indeed."

"Drawing out information from you is like debating with a mute!" said Gral. "Tell me what is happening!"

It amazed him that the emotion in the room had reached such a fevered pitch as the Andorian's antennae lurched forward, Gral's snout twitched with anger and even the Denobulan's mouth turned down.

"Fascinating," he said at the scene. Before Shran could point a blue finger in his face, which he hypothesized the man was likely to do in less than one minute and five seconds, he started from the very beginning, explaining in detail what it meant for a Vulcan to have a bond. He waited for the Tellarite's head to now and then deftly switched topics to the how a Vulcan heals him or herself. Skon provided information and theories that it was possible to throw one's self into it, as T'Pol had done. While the aliens stared on, the aide finally raised both eyebrows.

"I presume now you will allow me to contact Minister T'Pau as the ambassador requested?" he asked.

Shran asked, "One more question – what if we need to bring her out of that state."

"You mean, if we determine she will die?" asked Skon. "If the bond threatens to kill her?"

The blue man tossed him a frown and let his white head fall to his chest. "I don't think the Pink Skin would want her to die because of him. And I at least owe him that."

Skon agreed. "I presume, Doctor Phlox, you will continue to monitor the ambassador?"

Phlox frowned and jerked his head. "Of course."

"Then you will inform us when T'Pol's life is threatened?"

The doctor sighed, as if weighing ethics and wondering whose wishes to uphold. When the Andorian pressed him, the Denobulan capitulated.

"Yes, yes … very well," said Phlox.

"That's what I wanted to hear," said Shran. Gral could only grunt.

"Then we are all in agreement," said Skon. "You will excuse me."

With that, he strode out the door and down the hall to talk with his sister. With two Vulcan ships able to get to the planet in a week's time at great velocities and with transporter technology, it was logical that commander Stek or T'Nara should help.

There was another illogical reason the Vulcans should assist, and it had nothing to do with the admiral having carried the katra of Surak around or helping to find the Kir'Shara. Skon wanted Ambassador T'Pol to live.

His sister's image appeared on screen, and Skon's eyes darkened.

"Minister, I have a request to make," he said. His chin rested on his index fingers as he laid out the argument succinctly and plainly. "Send the Vulcans to collect the humans."

"Ambassador T'Pol already made that request."

"I am aware." He watched his sister wait. "It is the logical course of action. Sending one ship to retrieve two humans would save them, assist our relations with the Terrans and protect a secret."

"What do you mean?"

Leaning in, he tilted his head. "I have known you all my life. You know where your military force is located."

"There have been too many tasks to attend to, I--"

"The Romulans are the Sundered?" he asked. It was the name they had given the outcast – the Vulcans who sought to wage war before agreeing to live on another planet where they could embrace emotions. Using the ancient tongue, he asked again in Vulcan. "Seheikk'he?"

T'Pau watched, wordless.

He said, "It is why the Terran doctor believed there to be Vulcans on that planet."

She remained silent.

He said, "If so, I believe _that _is a secret worth risking one ship for. And, it is most certainly worth saving two lives."

The two siblings stared at each other, as if they had played this game before – waiting to determine who would speak first. Skon knew his sister was a brilliant politician and leader, but had no stomach for patience; it was a weakness he took advantage of. More than a minute ticked by, and she spoke first.

"I will ask Commander T'Nara to turn around."

"I thank you," he said.

"Thanks is a human tradition. I made a logical decision."

"Indeed you did."

Bowing, he watched the screen fade to black and then felt his lips twitch at the screen. "Most fascinating. That was easier than I anticipated."

_Perhaps the Romulans _are_ our ancient brethren. I shall read the Kir'Shara again tonight for clues._

TBC

A/N: The healing trance was used as a plot device in TOS – A Private Little War. Dr. M'Benga, a human doctor who specializes in Vulcan physiology, is there to help Spock.


	31. Chapter 31

Gral was glad to be free, able to walk on his own even though he'd been slowed some because of the Council building bombing. More than a month in the hospital had caused him to go a little stir crazy and he found himself biding his time watching what the humans referred to as "television," enjoying particularly the legal channel where lawyers bickered all day long.

The morning that T'Pol had put herself into a purposeful coma, he took the opportunity to head to a local bar with Shran and discuss everything he'd missed while away. It seemed though he got regular updates from his friends, there was a lot he didn't understand.

A few days had gone by, and every morning he and Shran would make the trek to the hospital to see T'Pol, and each day her vital signs would dip lower. Skon had called the three of them together, meeting to discuss the Ithanite arriving tomorrow and presumably (although the Vulcan never mentioned this) when to wake T'Pol up.

Gral waved goodbye to his wife after a very satisfying argument that morning, one that he knew she'd allowed him to win and headed out to the shuttle Shran was driving. Climbing into the vehicle, he put his plastic lunchbox on his lap and belted himself in.

One look at Shran and the Tellarite gave a small snort.

"What in the devil happened to you?" asked Gral.

Shran's white hair was askew and he had a small bruise on his neck. A smirk fell over the blue man's face, and he smoothed his hand over his antennae and hair.

"The women in my house want me."

Gral snorted. "Not this again."

"Jhamel said she's picking up on Tares' feelings." His lips spread into a full-blown smile. "Let's just say – those feelings are putting my wife in the mood."

Gral winced. "Your offspring is due this month."

"So?" Shran sighed. "It's almost like when we first began mating. We nearly broke the bed."

Gral shook his head. "You had me worried that you and Tares were--"

"No … at least not yet."

"Not yet? I thought excessive mating with your wife is what you wanted?"

Shran shrugged.

The Tellarite frowned. "What happened to Jhamel and Tares telling stories about you. I thought you were beginning to hate going home?"

"Apparently last night Tares got into the Andorian ale and started telling Jhamel about the nights we went swimming together as children. It got them to … compare notes. Tares admitted she had wanted me as a lover."

His antennae stiffened and he gave a proud smile. Shran said, "I've been thinking of asking Jhamel if Tares could join us one night."

"Do Andorians typically do that?"

"Andorians can have sex with up to three partners at the same time."

Gral didn't want to know, despite being more than a little intrigued. Though the Tellarite was no prude, there were boundaries to friendship … and he decided later to look up how Shran was able to consort three other women at once.

Gral said, "You Andorians have strange customs."

The smile stayed put and the Andorian slyly glanced over. "Don't knock it until you tried it."

A squeal left Gral's mouth and he rubbed his belly, which quaked with mirth at the same time he shook his head.

The ride continued until they reached the meeting facility and the room. Skon was already seated, punctual as ever, with his eyes closed and his fingers pointed under his chin, forming a temple. On their arrival, the Vulcan opened his eyes.

"Greetings," he said.

Shran's eyes narrowed and he mumbled under his breath. "I can't figure out if I like this guy or not."

Gral nodded in agreement, but waddled in and plopped himself into a seat as Shran swaggered in and sat down. The Vulcan watched patiently as if determining how to begin the meeting. It was a few seconds too many.

"We don't have all day," said Gral.

"No, we do not," said the Vulcan. "I wanted to discuss our approach when the Ithanite comes."

"Gral settled this, _he _should decide," said Shran.

Gral nodded in agreement as the Vulcan blinked twice.

"Then perhaps you would share your approach?" asked Skon.

"That's none of your concern."

"Actually, it is. Vulcan, Andoria and Tellar are allies along with the humans. These matters are imperative to all of us."

"I used to be the president of the Council. I know what I'm doing. I'm not some youngling fresh off his mother's teat," said Gral.

He noticed that Shran gave him a firm nod, and it made Gral smile.

"The Ithanite isn't important. I thought we were going to discuss T'Pol," said Shran. "She's been in the trance for more than three days, and Phlox said she's getting worse."

"Both Blue and I like Archer, but we can't allow her to give her life for him. We know he wouldn't want it," said Gral.

Skon said, "I too do not want Ambassador T'Pol to perish."

Gral said, "Then we should wake her."

"The ambassador's vital signs are well within the--"

Shran waved his hand with annoyance. "You and I both know they've been plummeting exponentially in the past four days. Phlox called us in last night. We're running out of time."

Skon closed his eyes as if to concede the point and Gral spoke up. "It appears we all agree. We're the closest thing the Vulcan has to family. Let's decide now."

"We wake her," said Shran.

"That was not her request," said Skon. "Anticipating her actions are also important."

Gral shook his head. "Skinny doesn't need die. I agree with Blue. We wake her."

An eyebrow lifted from T'Pol's aide. "Very well."

Shran left his seat. "Now."

Gral in solidarity did the same, and the Vulcan after giving what almost amounted to a sigh nodded.

The three made a beeline to Starfleet Medical, as if each one had been waiting for this moment for the past few days. When they arrived at the facility, Phlox was already standing over her bed. On their entry, he addresses his same concerns.

"If we don't stop this now, I'm afraid she's going to die," he said.

"We have already come to the same conclusion, Doctor," said Skon.

He placed his hands together, as if in prayer, and put them in front of his face for a moment. Shran was about to ask what he was doing when the Vulcan spoke quietly.

"What I do may be startling and unsettling. I assure you it is the only way to assist her. You cannot interfere. Is that clear?"

Each nodded and Gral pointed at the display over her head, one that showed her heartbeats decreasing by the second. "Hurry!"

Skon's eyes opened and in their clear gray irises, the Tellarite believe he saw fire, something that resembled anger. The Vulcan took a harsh breath, one that noisily left his lips and then headed for T'Pol's hospital bed.

"Raise it," ordered Skon.

The order was given between clenched teeth and Phlox scurried over lift the bed. Once T'Pol's biobed was poised in a sitting position and the gears came to a halt, Skon looked at her and showed her the back of his hand before smacking her across the face – hard.

"What the Grendal?" asked Shran. His hand went to his ice blade.

Phlox said, "I can't allow this to continue."

But rather than heed their words, Skon struck out several more times – slapping her across the cheek with his forehand and back, shoving her face from one side to another across the pillow. As if enough force wasn't used, he grunted and swung harder until her body slammed against the railing of her bed.

Gral watched as Shran grabbed the Vulcan's hood and yanked him to his blade. The small circular object went to Skon's neck, directly over his jugular, and the Andorian cursed him.

"If you touch her again, I'll kill you," he said.

Skon, his adam's apple under the weapon, tried his best to speak. "I warned you, Ambassador." Swallowing, nicking himself in the process as green blood dribbled down his neck, he continued. "It is the only way to wake her."

"You came to Earth so that _you _could be ambassador instead of her – it was jealousy," accused Shran. "Or it was a political coup set up by your sister."

Phlox went to his patient and gave a large frown. "Her vital signs have improved."

"I _must _continue," said Skon. In an instant the Vulcan shirked the Andorian and he raised the blue man easily above his head, grabbing him by the collar. As if picking up a rag doll, Shran's limbs went limp, and Skon tossed him to the side without so much as a grunt. When Shran landed against the wall, his shoulder smacking against it with force, he headed back for Skon until Gral placed his hand on the Andorian's stomach, holding him back.

"Dr. Phlox said it was working," said Gral. "We don't know enough about Vulcan physiology." With a sneer working to his lips, curling back to show his fangs, the Tellarite nodded. "Continue."

Striding up to T'Pol, without looking back to see whether the Andorian had managed to recover or whether he was nipping at his heels to attack again, his hand flew at T'Pol – slapping harder and faster until finally they heard a moan.

"You're going to kill her," said Shran, who shirked off Gral.

"T'Pol, we cannot … will not allow you to perish," said Skon. And as he said the words, his hand flew against her face nearly knocking her from her bed as the Vulcan grunted, using all his strength.

---

_The waves emanating from Archer's body – the ones that were gentle at first, rolling – turned chaotic. And although T'Pol was unsure about the passage of time, she knew instinctively this was his last day. _

_His mind was beginning to wander, growing delusional with memories of his father and earlier missions – including Trip's death and the moment he saw her awake from the trellium overdose she received from the Selaya. His breaths were more labored, as was his heartbeat, each one a struggle. _

_She'd tried to reiterate the words reminding him of calm and peace, but she could feel him in his death throes, fighting his imminent demise. Attempting to reach deeper into her bond, she felt him force her back._

"_Don't," he said. His voice was wearier than she'd ever heard it before, and it made her stomach clench._

"_Why?" _

"_I know it means you may not be able to turn back," he said. _

_Fighting, he opened his eyes and pushed himself, which took more than once for him to sit up. _

"_You need to let me go," he said. _

"_No." She was still trying to reserve her energy, closing her eyes to take on more of his agony. _

"_Dying is logical. It's part of life," he said. The words held pain, and yet were whispered softly, seemingly knowing what hurt they would cause._

_She shook her head. There was still hope; Skon told her catatonic body that T'Pau had agreed to send a ship – one that would arrive there in less than a week. The captain, he assured her, was an excellent military commander. She'd had years of training in Vulcan High Command in various units despite her youth._

"_It's not your time to die." She said, "Until a ship comes, I must help you."_

"_It's killing you," he said. "I love you too much to let you die along with me."_

_She was about to refute that point, when he whispered in her ear. "Be reasonable. Let me go."_

"_No."_

_He sighed. Stirring her, he continued to talk as if hoping to break her concentration and her peace. _

"_Remember our first night together, the one after you stormed into my apartment?" he asked._

"_I did not … storm." Her eye creaked open to see him smiling softly. "Jonathan, conserve your energy."_

_He laid back down, mostly succumbing to weariness while his eyes drifted closed. "I remember the thrill of you kissing me. It was like sharp volts of electricity were shooting into my fingertips and toes. I can't remember that ever happening, not even when kissing Susie Rogers at the prom."_

"_Please," she said. _

"_And then making love to you, melding with you." He sighed. "I've been lucky to have you in my life."_

"_Fortune has nothing to do with it, and your life is not yet over."_

"_Some things are too good to last forever, Ashal-veh. I'm just glad I had the chance to tell you that I loved you. I never thought I would."_

"_Be silent."_

"_T'Pol, I don't want to spend the last moments of my life conserving my energy." His hand grasped hers. "I want to spend them touching you."_

_With what seemed like great effort, he raised his two fingers. Furrowing her brow, she pushed over to face him as his complexion turned more ashen. _

"_It is most likely a question of hours until the Vulcan ship arrives, if you have just a little more patience--"_

_He turned his head to her. "I'm so tired."_

_With a quivering voice, she said, "I know. But, I am willing to give you more--"_

"_I don't want it." Nodding to his fingers, he encouraged her to take them and smiled when she did. _

_She said, "If you hang on just a little longer--"_

"_Thank you for everything you've given me."_

"_Jonathan--"_

"_I was right when I said I've always loved you. And I always will."_

_His arm, as if gravity was overtaking it slowly lowered and his eyes began to drift closed. The hint of a smile was on his face and she could feel the tether – their bond - bend and twist as if to separate. Scrambling desperately, she tried to reach out to him and nearly screamed in frustration as his image faded. _

And then she felt a hard slap against her right cheek, one that was already sore. Weakly, she opened her eyes and watched while Skon brought his hand down to strike her again, and then halted his motions when she blinked. A look of utter joy gleamed in his eyes.

"Ambassador!" he said. It was the closest to glee she'd ever heard in his voice.

Turning into her pillow, she couldn't help but let a tear trickle down her cheek – one that was hidden from view. Emotions strangled her throat, regret and sorrow, what she'd felt when her mother died and when Trip did.

Like a single strand of silk, her bond with Jonathan was barely perceivable. He wasn't quite dead, but perhaps – she reasoned – it was only a formality. She'd wanted to be there when he died, to feel his katra slip from his body as she held him to her. Now, she would never get that opportunity.

Shran must've known the emotional turmoil she was in, because he touched her hand. "T'Pol, there was no other choice."

"I was not quite ready to be retrieved," she said, knowing the emotion that it was laden with. Breathing in the emotion, she heard her voice sound more pained. "I was so close …. Just another few minutes."

"You could've died, Skinny," said Gral. "We couldn't let that happen."

Although she wanted to look into her friends eyes, pleading with them to let her have a few final minutes with her bondmate, she would enter the healing trance again too late to feel his life force slip away. On the verge of tears, she whispered.

"Leave me."

And they all filed out, Phlox bringing up the rear. He leaned over his patient and told her what she'd already known.

"Skon saved your life."

With that, he headed out as well and for the first time since Trip died, she cried. These tears though that weren't of missed opportunities and friendship mixed with confusion; she'd known how much Jonathan meant to her and he left just at the point when she almost told him how much she loved him, too.

It was fitting he'd picked their first moment as a couple. Even then she was encouraging him to stay by traipsing her lips across his, compelling him to remain on Earth. He was right to question her motives, at the time her mouth entreated his, she thought merely of keeping him with her.

The complexities of why it was important for him to be with _her_ lighted upon her later, just as she'd now wished she'd pressed her lips to his once more and vowed he was her bondmate – one she'd choose even if no link connected them. Friend, lover – he touched her katra in a way that she had yet to experience in all her days.

As the silk connection strained, she focused with what little strength she had.

_I love you, too._

----

For the past three days, Mel discovered she'd talked to herself a lot. Little things mostly. Chatting mostly. It's what she did with friends, those who would accuse of her of having a motor mouth and too much energy.

But talking to no one in particular also cheered her up.

Being stuck on a planet, ordered to stay clear of other life forms (when she desperately needed their help) was soul-suckingly depressing. Watching the admiral's condition continue to deteriorate brought downright despair. Every day, twice a day, she'd check his vital signs and note that every time she checked they worsened. A kidney had shut down, and his blood pressure and heart rate put him at nearly dead. His body was cold, his face ashen and he hadn't had any real water to speak of in three days.

He was going to die.

Sadly, she retrieved the cardio-stimulators out of the medkit and the adrenalin, the one shot they had, so that she could revive him if necessary. Other than that, she had to wait.

Although she felt badly for it, she also ate the last ration; she'd done so yesterday. Now, as she scouted on the perimeter trying to figure out exactly how to get help without tipping off the Vulcans that Jon had been so suspicious of, she'd begun eating bugs. Tonight, she decided, she'd tried to hunt something. Maybe she could force the food and a little water down his throat.

It's rained for the past few days, the rook leaking onto them – keeping them cold at night and the sun would stream in baking them during the day. It was enough light to give her a slight sunburn; he was saved from extra heat because of the makeshift shelter she built to keep him out of the sun. Removing it at night, she figured the rain was good for him – maybe drops would pool into his mouth to keep him hydrated.

When she woke up on the fourth day, she checked his vital signs as she had every morning. His breath sounded raspy, as if he was finally struggling for breath and she closed her eyes. The end wasn't just near, it would probably happen today. Deciding to postpone her hunting plans, she weighed in favor of staying at his side and being with him when he passed into the Great Beyond. Then another idea lit her brain, maybe it was time to disobey an order.

He was on the verge of death, looking at the Grim Reaper. By all intents and purposes, she was no longer obligated to follow his orders or commands. And yet, her gut twitched at the thought of disobeying him. A small portion of her was afraid the minute she'd go against his orders, he'd awake and become angry or worse, become disappointed.

As she put the scanner away, she heard him barely whisper.

"You need to let me go," he said.

Turning, she saw his eyes closed and yet concern on his face. His voice was hoarse and cracked from lack of water and it made her frown.

"I can't. You're not going to die on me," she said. As if his words were said instead of as a parting, she brought the scanner to him again, hoping to see improvement. She saw none.

"Dying is logical. It's part of life."

She shook her head. Word at HQ was that Jonathan Archer was a man who couldn't be killed, despite blowing himself and the Xindi weapon up, being kidnapped at least twice a year, having a bounty on his head from more than five different species and putting himself in harm's way more than once a month.

Scooting closer to him, to lay his head in her lap, she disagreed.

"Who cares about logic?"

"It's killing you," he said. "I love you too much to let you die along with me." He paused as if for dramatic effect. "Be reasonable. Let me go."

She knitted her brow. "We'll get through this."

Stroking his forehead, she felt his hair slide between her fingers and marveled at his soft brown hair and the light mix of gray – which were just as Jon had said: wiry. Her fingertips found their way to his cheek, which was rough after not having shaved in four days and growing a pepper-colored beard.

As captain, she'd held a dying crewman – it had been one of the most horrible and beautiful things she could ever remember happening. Horror turned to peace just as he'd gasped his last breath and his eyes stared into nothingness. Despite having seen ghastly things, including replays at Starfleet Command of the Xindi attack people disintegrating in seconds, the death of Crewman Frailey stayed with her. It woke her up at night.

It was the same feeling she had now. She could tell his eyes were staring into eternity and his breath was coming to an end.

"I should've disobeyed your order," she whispered. "I'm so sorry."

Hanging her head, she noticed the serenity overtake his face and in a moment of weakness leaned over to take his lips to hers. Teardrops spilled from her eyes and landed on his uniform while she cursed her final actions.

"Jon, please forgive me."

Cradling him, she wept. More tears came, more than should've, the result of everything in the past few days finally catching up with her. Stress and anguish. Tired, ship destroyed, crewmen killed, landing on an unfamiliar planet with little to eat or drink, a dying friend and hiding from their allies because of confusing orders. His death was just the final straw to a series of traumatic events.

In all her days in the officer rank, she hadn't cried like this. And letting the water come down her face, shoulders shaking, made her feel vulnerable and desperate.

_I'll stay with you until your final breath._

She knew it was seconds away. A wheeze turned into a moan, and with one final gasp, she felt his body still. And the last human connection she had on this planet ended. She stroked his forehead again, murmuring a prayer under her breath, one her Catholic grandmother told her, when she realized her particles were swirling in a beam of light. When her neutrons, protons and electrons finally re-sequenced together, she looked around. This was a ship, one with red metallic walls and letters that resembled spirals.

The air felt hot and dry, not like a human's environmental controls. Her breath came in quicker pants, the gravity has stronger here, too.

A creature walked up to her and leaned down, speaking in a language she didn't recognize. Shaking her head, she tried to explain.

"I don't understand."

He pointed to the admiral and then back to herself, saying the same phrase much more slowly. The man looked Vulcan, but given the admiral's warning about them, she stayed protectively at Jon's side keeping his body in her lap.

Another creature headed in, the door sliding in front and behind her, and Mel instantly realized who it was: Commander T'Nara. It made her smile and stand instantly.

"Commander," said Mel.

The captain of the vessel pointed to a console, one that her assistant was working on and a Vulcan with a biobed joined them, scooping Jon from her. The two disappeared and Mel found dizzy and disoriented.

"—can understand me?" asked T'Nara.

"Yes."

"The universal translator on your uniform was not functioning properly."

The human wiped grime from her face that was wet from tears. "I think _I'm _not functioning properly."

T'Nara gave the smallest of frowns and gently spoke. "Do you need a doctor?"

She shook her head, her lips sloped up gently. "No."

"Then allow me to show you to your quarters."

"Admiral Archer --?"

T'Nara shook her head. "Our doctors will do everything they can."

"He died."

The Vulcan put her hand out in front of her. "Allow me to show you to your cabin."

On the way, Mel could only think about the state of her commander as she nodded to hearing T'Nara's ship had been ordered to pick them up and how they barely escaped the Romulans.

"Are your people on the planet below?" Mel asked.

T'Nara recovered from the surprise quickly. "I do not know."

And with that, the two disappeared down the hall.

TBC

A/N: Dr. M'Benga, in TOS' Private Little War, slapped Mr. Spock to wake him from the healing trance. I used the same method here. Oh, and hang in there!


	32. Chapter 32

A/N: I'm sorry to put everyone through hell! I've noticed people are reading for different things, and I will try to alert you ahead of time. This chapter contains a nice Archer/T'Pol moment, some Ithanite bits with a character I hope you like (he'll develop more as the story unfolds – and ack, yes, there's more story), Shran moments and a scene between Mel and Archer and finally, not necessarily in that order.

Without further ado, thanks for all the reviews!

----

T'Pol hung her head. The ghost-like thread between her and her bondmate, Jonathan, was dwindling and she couldn't regain her healing trance to try just once more to speak with him. So, instead, she sat on the bed in the hospital room, after telling everyone else to leave, and cried.

She even buried her face in her hands, feeling tears leak between her fingers. Water fell slowly, as she was unschooled in expressing grief. It took several minutes to compose herself, and despite the end of her weeping, there was an aching inside.

Closing her eyes, she remembered a night she and Jonathan had together. One of her favorites and perhaps the defining moment – the second she knew that perhaps she felt love as well.

_The rain in San Francisco was in between a full on down pour and monsoon. When they'd walked out it was a light drizzle, so neither thought about bringing an umbrella. As the rain grew more torrential, Jonathan spread his jacket so they could run underneath, splashing through the streets to get to the Mandarin Cove. His hair was wet, sticking to his skin as was most of his clothes and he wore a beaming smile anyway, laughing as they ran. The wrinkles spread along his eyes and lit them up until the glimmered jade._

_Drenched, pulling at their apparel, they squished their way to the seats a the Chinese restaurant and realized they were the only patrons in the place; their usual waiter, Harold, explained the weather was keeping the other customers away. Jonathan turned his head and uttered a special request: to play music he knew she liked – Miles Davis. They obliged right away. _

_As the night bore on, he'd downed one more Tsing Tao than normal, three in all, the alcohol barely affecting his motor functions, but his grin spread broader than it ever did. He'd long ago given up using chopsticks and skewered the remnants of her meal, having finished his, on his fork and took them to his lips. As the two talked, she noticed him staring at her._

"_Jonathan?" _

_He looked over his shoulder to ensure no one was watching and when the coast-cleared took his hand to her hair. _

"_You have a curl forming."_

_She reached over to flatten it, but he shooed away her hand. _

"_It's cute," he said. With a sigh, he spoke to her in whispers. "You cold?"_

_Holding up her mug, she explained though that she was warmed on the inside. "The tea helps."_

_He pointed to his beer. "I guess this helps, too."_

_The waiter mistook the motion for another beer and soon Jonathan began nursing his fourth. Drinking it made him smile even more and she realized right away he was tipsy, pleasantly inebriated. Instead of being more guarded with his affection or waiting until the wait staff left, he held her hand (despite her protests) and even kissed her briefly on the mouth. As she furrowed her brow at him to let him know she was displeased at the public display of affection, his grin grew more mischievous. _

"_God, you're beautiful," he said. His finger nudged the ridge between her eyes where the furrow grew. _

_The comment disarmed her, and before she could comment he paid the check – giving more than effusive praise over the dinner – and walked out of the restaurant with his arm around her. It was still raining, heavier now, and he attempted to hold his still damp jacket over them until he realized they were already soaking. Slinging it over his shoulder, he grabbed her hand and started running, laughing as he did. Even she felt tickled at the absurdity, her robes slogging through the puddles. A few blocks later they were at her apartment and he waited in the rain, looking up at the bottom of the stairs at her as she was attempting to let herself in._

"_Want to call it a night?" he asked. _

_It caused her to point her head in his direction. "I do have to wake up early."_

_Disappointment seemed to speed across every feature and his inebriated smile threatened to become a frown. She waited for him to speak his mind, which he did immediately, even as others approached. _

"_I don't want to call it a night." Heading up the stairs to look in her eyes, he gathered her into his arms – the most forward he'd been in public. "I want to go upstairs with you."_

_Giggling young people passed inside and Jonathan smiled a little broader at them, as if their mirth was contagious._

_T'Pol waited until they vanished inside and turned back at her lover. "We've been together quite a bit lately."_

"_I've enjoyed it."_

_He leaned into her and whispered in her ear. "I just want to be with you. We don't need to make love. I just feel comfortable with you."_

_A hand reached out to touch her cheek, caress it with more than one stroke of admiration. It was the same glint of longing she'd seen before when they were supposedly only friends; the same one he delivered when she knew he wanted more than just friendship. Then it made her nervous, now it almost made her want to smile._

"_I have to get up early," she said. _

"_I won't interfere."_

_She let him in, and despite their words to each other, as soon as they entered the elevator, the two began to kiss. His lips entreated hers and he gently pushed her against the wall of the lift as they shot upward. Tongues met and she felt his hand spread under her wet hair dragging her into a deeper embrace where their throats were open and panting. _

_The doors began to open, reaching their destination, and she heard the older couple from down the hall give a mild cough when she and Jonathan broke free. It caused the Vulcan to narrow her eyes and Jon to give a mild chuckle. _

"_Sorry," he said, barely meeting their gaze. _

_As she opened the door, his hands fled to her hips and he turned her around, backing her into the apartment. They kissed more, and she realized he was backing her into her bedroom. _

"_What are you doing?" she asked._

_He didn't have an answer._

_She said, "I meant what I said about getting up early."_

_Rubbing his hand against his mouth, he blew out a small sigh. "Thought you were enjoying it."_

_She was, but that was beside the point. _

"_Hmmm," he said. With that, he began unbuttoning his shirt. _

_T'Pol was about to question him again, reminding him about his comment to her on the steps when he disrobed completely and headed into her bathroom, leaving a trail of wet clothes behind. The water started to run and the room immediately steamed, making even the bedroom feel muggy._

_With mild annoyance that bordered on secret mirth, she gathered each garment up and flung it into her arms and dumped in a pile so that he could wear them out the next morning. As she flopped a drenched shirt onto the top of the pile, she heard a strange noise. Singing._

_Following the song into her bathroom, she pulled back the shower curtain. _

_Tilting a shampoo bottle up, as if it were his microphone, she watched an impish grin spread across his face. _

"_You coming in?" he asked._

_His hair, lathered but not washed clean, stuck up in a spike and the hair of his chest matted down. Water dribbled out his mouth and his eyes shone._

"_Hmm?" he asked. _

"_Yes.". _

_She shimmied out of her clothing, leaving the curtain open – not so fastidiously – open so that water would pool on her floor. When she was done, he stuck his head under the nozzle to flatten his hair and then let her get under the spray as he stood behind her, wrapping his arms around her into a hug. _

_And then he quietly sang in her ear, swaying to the warm water. When she was about to turn around and deliver a kiss on his lips, he held her a little tighter. _

"_I want to spend every minute of my life like this."_

_Finally breaking his grasp, she faced him. His eyes were serious, watching her, blinking before he took her lips. _

"_How about you?" he asked. The words whispered against her mouth._

"_It has its advantages."_

_Seduction in his eyes, he turned off the faucet and held her hands as he walked out of the shower._

"_I need to awake early," she said, allowing herself to be tugged._

_He nodded and led her to the bed._

"_I prefer if you didn't get the bedspread wet," she said._

_Gently pushing her onto it anyway, as her lips gave the ghost of a frown, he leaned over her and intertwined his fingers into her hair. _

_He said, "I made keys to my apartment for you today."_

"_Why?"_

"_Because I want you to be there more often." He sighed, sweetly. "I want you to come any time you want." He paused, and brushed his fingertips along her face. "Because I want to take our relationship to the next step."_

_It made her a little nervous._

"_I want to open my dresser drawer and see some of your things in there," he said. "I want my bathroom to have your makeup case and the bottle of smelly Vulcan lotion you put on your skin."_

"_Jonathan, we have less than three weeks …."_

"_Think about it." Instead of giving up, he grinned more broadly. "Give it a day or two."_

_She nodded and his lips took hers again. Scooting her body up, so that she was spread horizontally on the bed, he kissed her again. When his embraces became more demanding, she pushed away from him._

"_Tomorrow, I must awaken at five for a meeting with Ambassador T'Pau."_

_He climbed into bed and held the covers open for her, and she settled into them. Pulling the bedspread around them and then setting the alarm, he nodded. _

"_Okay," he said. _

_Fluffing her pillow, she gently laid on her side, facing away from him and closed her eyes to accept sleep. When she didn't feel him lay next to her or curl his hands around her, she waited. Creaking open one eye, she saw him gazing at her. Two fingers – the one of the Vulcan kiss – stroked her ears, neck and shoulders soothingly while her eyes drifted closed. He kept up the gentle movements for five minutes, then ten and then thirty. She could tell he was watching her, content to keep doing so until she fell asleep. _

_And yet, instead of making her drowsy, it caused her to shiver. Turning toward him slightly, he stopped._

"_I'm sorry, was I bothering you?" he asked._

"_No," she said. _

_Leaning up she placed a kiss on his lips and dragged his head down and his body over hers. His hair was still wet and she could tell he was still slightly intoxicated, but his eyes twinkled in the moonlight, shimmering with adoration. His features were handsome – high cheekbones and a strong chin. Smoothing her hands over his chest, she felt the soft hairs glide under her fingers and she sighed. _

"_The Vulcan lotion I put on my skin isn't … smelly," she said._

_A laugh purred in his throat. "I meant that in a good way."_

"_If we had more than three weeks …."_

_His nose nuzzled hers. "So, when I get back …?"_

_She knew he wouldn't be coming back._

_It's when she gripped the hair on his head and crushed her mouth to his, forcing his lips open with her tongue. Running her fingers over his back, she felt his strong muscles – taut shoulders – and kissed him with more verve. Her mouth fell to his neck and tugged at his earlobe, delighting at his labored breath._

"_I thought you had to get up early," he whispered._

"_I can rest after my meeting and before I move a few of my belongings to your apartment."_

_She kissed him again and ran two fingers along his jaw. When they broke for air, her eyes met his._

"_I want you," she whispered, knowing how human it sounded and not caring. It was only the two of them and she wanted to mirror words he'd used before; delivering human words, she deemed in this instance, was important._

_Bliss broke out over his face before his eyes darkened in passion. And it made her heart beat faster and her toes curl._

Easing against the sheets, she brought the covers to her chin, waiting for the single thread that connected them to snap … for his life force to ebb away. Bracing herself, she brought her knees up to her chest and wrapped her hands around them, clenching her jaw. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.

But, nothing happened.

Instead, she felt the solitary thread buzz, plucked as if strummed like a lyre. Rather than fall into the cold and emptiness, what awaited the end of a bond, she felt a pulse of warmth.

_Warmth?_

She shot up like a rocket and gasped.

_He's alive!_

---

Mel was on her way to her cabin, a few feet away, with her head on her chest as T'Nara talking beside her. Captain Vega was tired, bone-weary, dragging her feet with each step. She was about to turn to the commander and explain she just wanted some time to herself when the intercom rang with a chiming ping.

"Dr. Sakot to Commander T'Nara."

The Vulcan strolled to the comm. "Yes?"

"When you have a moment, join me in the medical facility."

"Acknowledged."

Mel wandered into her room, said her thanks and let the door close behind her as she attempted to figure out where the blasted environmental controls were located. The room was blazing hot and the increased gravity was giving her a headache. When she discovered the device, she quickly notched the temperature down and sighed as she felt cool air blow on her skin.

Despite not having had a shower in a few days, the first thing she wanted to do was sleep.For the past few days, she'd stayed awake perched over Archer's body allowing her eyes to rest for only five minutes a day before they snapped open. The captain, feeling her body close to hallucination, lay down and closed her eyes.

Sleep wouldn't come. She revisited her decision, one that ended up killing the admiral, not to involve the Vulcans on the planet. His order to stay clear of them and dressing-down could've been spoken in a delirium, caused by the anguish he'd been suffering. Every single day she thought, more than once, about asking for their assistance. It burned like acid in her stomach and made her frown.

She'd let down the admiral, causing his life to come to an unceremonious end. And she'd let down herself.

_Maybe I should resign._

Worse than holding Crewman Frailey in her arms and watching him go, the result of saving other crewman, was holding the admiral as he took his final breath. The sight of him speaking to her, pain spreading across his features, would never leave her. Hearing him gasp, extolling his life force, would haunt her the rest of her days.

What didn't make sense is why in the hell the Romulans, Orions and Arali started this war? _What did they have to gain? Power? Territory? Wealth? _For 100 years, the humans managed to side-step strife. After the third world war, they eventually settled their differences, ended hunger and sought peace. The Xindi attack and now the hostilities with these new enemies uprooted Mel's most basic beliefs: people, aliens included, were good.

She'd believed that despite small and mostly uneventful skirmishes with pirates and traders as captain. And, she'd believed the Xindi attack was a fluke. But, now she had to wonder if traveling through space, trying to explore and seek out new life somehow – for reasons unknown – put a mark on the human race.

Starfleet, as far as she knew, was still investigating the Council bombing without determining a culprit or even a motive. It had killed more than fifty people and was a sharp reminder of the violence that can be done to Earth and its allies.

Captain Vega sighed. There was only one person in the human race who was a single target, a bounty, to so many species: the Klingons, Orion Syndicate, Mazarites, Suliban and a few other dozen aliens. It was the same man who'd been near the Council building when it crumbled to the ground. Archer. And now he was dead.

A communication rang through, rousing her from her musings, chiming incessantly until she jammed her thumb against the button.

"Vega."

T'Nara said, "I apologize for the intrusion. I have limited knowledge of humans, and human culture. And while I know you were attempting to rest, I believed you might be interested to know that …."

As she was about to ask the Vulcan to spit out whatever she had to say, T'Nara finally got to the point.

"Admiral Archer is alive."

"I'll be right there!" And without signaling she was done, she leapt off the bed and tore down the hall realizing only after she passed the second junction she'd need to look at a map to figure out exactly where Sickbay was on a Vulcan ship.

----

Shran's antennae drooped and his head sagged against his chest. There weren't many people he liked, but the Pink Skin was one of them. Archer may've even been eighth on his list, following his family and a few Andorians. Sure, they'd had their run ins, betrayed one another and tried to kill each other, but after all the deceit and cursing of their early relationship, something else blossomed. Friendship.

Thy'lek Shran loved the man like a brother. All the goading, teasing and hubris between them, he'd known, was because of their genuine affection for each other.

It honored Shran to his icy veins that the admiral asked for him, personally, to become the ambassador for Andoria despite everything that happened with Commander Tucker and the Arali. General Krag told him that the Pink Skin had even pulled a few strings to make it happen. Although Archer may not have known, it'd given Shran his life back – his honor and pride after being disgraced for bringing dilithium crystals, the ones he was secretly ordered to take, back to his government.

An almost tearful smile made it to his face as he reminisced about punching Archer for the first time, watching the Pink Skin show a little emotion as his ruddy skin swelled and turned crimson. Even with that first smack, he had to admire the human; he didn't back down from a fight and stood up to the Vulcans.

Clearing his throat, he looked at Gral whose breaths had turned into light growls.

"You okay, Gral?" asked Shran.

The Tellarite sighed. "It's hard to believe he's gone, Blue."

The Andorian frowned, his antennae dipping just a little lower against his head, and awkwardly he took his little friend into a side hug before both men shifted uncomfortably and then looked at the door, sharing memories of Archer as Skon stood politely by.

As an hour became two and then four, Shran found himself pacing. He'd threatened for the past hour to the other Council members that he would go into T'Pol's room to console her. Every time he insisted, hand on the door, Gral or Skon would give another reason why he shouldn't. And frankly, the blue man was getting a little sick of hearing what he should and shouldn't do.

Testing fate, he placed his hand on the handle again, this time defying to look at Skon or Gral.

"I don't think you should go in there. Skinny told us to leave her alone," said Gral.

"She's been in there for four hours," said Shran. A gloved finger poked into the air. "And I don't think she should spend any time alone."

Skon interrupted. "It is natural for a Vulcan to seek solace in his or her thoughts at such a time."

Both Gral and Shran narrowed their eyes at the Vulcan.

"You've been quiet, Skill. Maybe you're happy about the Pink Skin dying," said Shran. "You have T'Pol all to yourself."

An eyebrow twitched, what appeared to Shran as vexation – it was the only thing that cheered him up.

Skon said, "I assure you, _Ambassador_, that is not the case."

_It is_, he thought. "We should talk with T'Pol about what she wants to do in his memory."

"But, Archer is barely dead," said Gral. "We should allow her time to decide when to honor him or how."

"Well, I want to honor him soon." His antennae whirled. "I for one would like the privilege to take one of Archer's possessions and leave it on the ice of Andoria in his memory. If his animal survived perhaps I can take him."

Gral said, "I don't think he would want that delicious creature to be taken to Andorian. Best to eat his dog, dining and thinking of him over ale in true Tellarite tradition."

Shran squirmed. "Can that mangy thing be eaten?"

Licking his lips, the Tellarite agreed. "Of course. It's meat. And that beast has lived a long, full and succulent life."

"Perhaps we could refrain from discussing the partaking of flesh," said Skon.

Shran grimaced and thought about opening the door again, but turned away at the last minute mostly because Gral coughed. Instead he contacted his wife, letting her hear the bad news, murmuring into his communicator as his wife said she would come to the hospital. Ending the call, he turned his head; footsteps were on the other side of the door. Turning his head, he watched the door thrown open and T'Pol a-glow. The faintest hint of a smile tugged at her flat lips.

"He's alive," she said.

"What?" asked Shran.

"Jonathan lives."

"You said--" said Gral. With what seemed like compassion, he spoke softly to her. "Skinny, I can understand how difficult it must be."

Skon nodded. "Perhaps rest and meditation will assist you. I am certain Dr. Phlox could--"

T'Pol shook her head. "Thy'lek, contact General Krag. I'm sure he'll tell you the same." With something that seemed like determination, she spoke resolutely. "I am not delusional."

Face barely worming into a frown, Shran shook his head until he realized T'Pol would insist on this.

"I'll contact him, but I want you to wait in there," he said, pointing to the hospital room.

"I'm fine," she said. Her arms folded across her chest and almost immediately Skon and Gral began to try and talk some common sense into her. When the commotion grew louder, Phlox joined them and cajoled her back into her room where he could take some scans. Gral and Skon disappeared inside with her, and Shran waited until he heard the voice of his commander and friend speak through the black device that reminded Shran of a human microphone.

"Thy'lek!" said Krag. "I didn't expect you to call so soon!"

"General, I have a personal favor."

"Of course."

"Any word from the Toltek or the forces in Romulus space?"

"I've just heard the most amazing news! We don't need to launch our ship to find the humans. Apparently the Vulcans have."

"You spoke with Minister T'Pau?" asked Shran.

"I did. I'm sure it was my skill at diplomacy that wore her down." Shran doubted it, but let the man continue. "She's as stubborn as a tarpig and has the personality of a plak."

"Your negotiating skills are legendary." Shran hesitated to ask. "The humans are--?"

"They're alive, although your friend is in poor health." The man gave a grunt. "He seems to have the stamina of an Andorian; he survived a wound that apparently should've killed him two days ago."

Shran smiled and looked at the door. _The Pink Skin's alive because of T'Pol_, he thought. Standing a little straighter, he agreed. "Thank you, sir."

"You've asked me for a personal favor, now I have one for you."

Shran shifted his feet. "Oh?"

"I'd like you to talk with Admiral Gardner about helping us convert dilithium for our experimental war ship."

Shran was quiet.

Krag continued, "Thy'lek?"

"Sir, wouldn't you want to invite all of our allies to participate?"

Krag's voice turned harsh. "We're in this war for two reasons – one, because Andorians were attacked and two, because the humans have been our allies for the past ten years and have proven themselves to be honorable. They stand up for their friends. Vulcans and Tellarites do not."

Shran hated to disagree, but felt the need to say something. "I think if you get to know some of the Vulcans and Tellarites--"

"Being an ambassador has made you soft!"

He resented those words. "I've served you in the Imperial Guard for many years. You know I'm not weak!"

"Then you'll talk to Gardner."

The line was disconnected and Shran's lips tugged down. That's a bridge Shran would cross later. _At least I know the Pink Skin lives. _

Pushing on the door of the hospital bed, he pointed his gaze at T'Pol, who instead of seeming anxious appeared to have self-confidence. _She knows._

Shran said, "The Vulcan is right. Archer's alive."

Skon's voice was the only one who spoke through the silence. "Fascinating."

Excitement broke out.

----

Within the week, T'Pol was back to what she considered normal – her blood pressure was stable and standard for a Vulcan woman about her age, her heart rate was regular and her health was good. The only difference in her overall state was a spring in her step when she walked and the days she counted down until she was see Jonathan again. It would take a little more than one month and 6 days to reach Earth, and she was already awaiting that reunion.

Through the bond, he'd thanked her. Thanks weren't necessary. Not only would he do the same for her, but he had yet to realize that she wanted him to live for _her_. Selfishly.

Shaking her from her reflections, she strolled down the hall of her apartment and gathered her aide. After she'd knocked on his door, he appeared immediately and the two, dressed in their finest Vulcan robes, headed to a shuttle to meet at the Council room to welcome the Ithanite.

On the way to the meeting, Skon made – what T'Pol considered – small talk. It almost brought a smile to her face; he would learn yet what it meant to be human, and she was pleased he'd made so many strides so quickly. She had learned about the race through great difficulty and several missteps. He learned without the same ramifications.

As soon as they reached the Council room, the one they were renting, they saw Shran and Tares – both squeezed into Andorian black leather uniforms. A ceremonial blade, the one Shran always kept at his hip shone – as if polished – and his antennae wiggled with anxiety.

"I hope the Ithanite is worth the trouble," he said.

Tares placed her hands on his bicep and cooed. "Thy'lek, we should be on our best behavior. The allies could use his help."

He looked up at her and gave a gentle smile, his hand cupping her cheek.

It made T'Pol blink and she wondered exactly what the relationship between the two was these days. The last she'd heard from Shran that he'd brought up the idea of he and his wife sharing a bed with Tares, and that the Aenar was more than mildly upset, giving an emphatic "no." Unintentionally, she glanced over at Skon who had the same confusion spreading over his face.

_Perhaps I should contact Jhamel. _Although T'Pol didn't believe in girl talk, she knew that her friend may need a woman to confide in.

And before anyone else could speak, the Tellarite pushed through the door of the meeting room and held it open for a copper-skinned humanoid about three feet high with a fez hat and an animal skin. His teeth were jagged, pointed as if he'd – like a Klingon – sharpened them with his own blade. As he stood in the middle of the room, Skon and T'Pol gave a slight bow as the Andorians nodded.

The Tellarite, wearing a ceremonial robe of skins – one it seemed was to honor to Ithanite – pointed to the little copper man.

"This is Ki'ar – Head Negotiator for the Ithanites."

When T'Pol was about to introduce herself and her aide, Ki'ar interrupted.

"We eat first!"

Shran shot a look of annoyance to T'Pol and said, "We brought food with us, something Ambassador Gral was sure you'd like."

"Raw?" asked Ki'ar. "Freshly killed?"

"Oh, yes," he said. His tone was verging on snide. "It even has the skin on it."

The Andorian reached behind him and stuffed a plate of raw fish in front while the little man stood on tiptoe to reach it. After cramming a few pieces in his mouth, he gave a satisfied grunt and sat down at a table, his legs swinging beneath him. The rest took it as their opportunity to sit, joining him at a round table.

"Talk," said Ki'ar.

Gral, said, "Ki'ar, this is Ambassador T'Pol and her aide--"

A growl left his mouth. "Have you had offspring?" he asked.

She narrowed her eyes. "No."

A smile came over his face and he spoke in Ithan to Gral who stroked his beard; it was something the universal translator couldn't pickup. As T'Pol was about to inquire, the Tellarite shook his head.

Gral continued, "This is her aide, Skon."

Ki'ar gave a mild smile.

"This is Ambassador Shran and his aide, Tares."

"Your female looks like a male," he said, pointing to Shran.

The blue man's antennae twitched and he stood up, hands on the table. "I am a male!"

Ki'ar shoved another piece of fish into his mouth. "My mistake."

"We hoped, Head Negotiator, we could speak with you about joining us," said T'Pol. "There are many advantages of allying yourself with us. For example, we could share technology that you would otherwise not receive: weapons, engineering, transporters --"

Ki'ar said, suddenly, "We're through talking."

Skon poked his eyebrow at the alien and Shran leaned against the table. "You said you'd come here to negotiate. We're not through--"

Ki'ar scowled. "I want to be entertained."

Shran was about to object again, when T'Pol held out her hand to silence him. "Entertained how?"

"What do you do on Earth for fun?"

Shran mumbled, "You're asking a _Vulcan _what they do for _fun_?"

Ki'ar tittered as Skon answered the question, seriously. "Read, meditate and see some of the sights – the ocean and pier for example - while quietly reflecting."

The copper man waved his hand. "Boring!"

The Tellarites eyes fled to Shran's. Gral said, "There are places to drink alcoholic beverages, see scantily clad women who dance and smoke something called cigars."

Ki'ar's said, "Tell me more about the women."

T'Pol hoping to quiet this discussion, opened her mouth, but Shran spoke over her.

He said, "Ki'ar, many of them have large breasts."

Ki'ar said, "We leave."

T'Pol's said, "Perhaps it would be wise to discuss the treaty first."

Ki'ar hopped off his chair. "That can be discussed tomorrow."

Shran stood, too. "Head Negotiator, I'd be happy to take you to these places." And Gral chimed in with the same effervescence. Tares agreed to join them, leaving T'Pol a bit stupefied.

"Perhaps it is best if you continue without me," said T'Pol.

Skon leaned over to her. "Ambassador, it may help if we were there."

T'Pol turned around in surprise. "Would you condone such actions?"

Skon raised a brow. "It is neither to condone or not condone. I pass no judgment. We want him as our ally so it appears only logical we should accompany them." A bit of mischief in his eyes, he continued. "Perhaps we can also ensure none of them break any Earth laws."

The Vulcan sighed and discovered that she followed them out the door.

----

Ki'ar was like a kid in a candy store where all the candy was free. Gral, Shran and T'Pol paid for nearly every hedonistic vice he could stuff into his body or pointing his leering gaze toward. When they finally hit the fourth bar in three hours, one with bright lights and girls stuffed into tops two-sizes too small, he seemed content to stay. One drink became ten, and the little man held his liquor with aplomb, shoving each one down his throat.

Shran, an experienced drinker, even began to get tipsy as did Gral and Tares. Although they didn't keep pace with the Ithanite, they were surpassing their limits. Meanwhile, T'Pol – inwardly disgusted – sipped at an alcoholic beverage while Skon did the same. It was their second for the entire day.

The disco music annoyed the Vulcans, ringing in their ears and yet Ki'ar wiggled his butt in time to the beat as if it would fly off. Suddenly, he jumped from his chair and headed for the dance floor, twirling his little fez hat as he danced staring up at the women above him.

At the scenes, Shran ran a hand over his antennae. "I don't think I can keep up with him."

Gral agreed. "Ithanites are hedonistic little way-dons, but they are fun to attend parties with."

"Seeing as you are all inebriated, perhaps we should end our attempts for negotiation today," said T'Pol.

"Who's negotiating, Skinny?" asked Gral.

"Isn't that what we came here for?" she asked.

The Ithanite waved to the table and Shran gave a hearty wave back until they realized he was asking them to join him. Gral shook his head.

"Tellarites dance, but it's best I don't. With the number of beverages I've had …"

The copper man continued to beckon them out and then focused on T'Pol. Shaking her head, she tossed the little man the closest thing she could to a frown. Finally, Ki'ar headed straight to her and tugged on her robe.

"Dance with me!"

"Vulcans do not dance."

Shran corrected her, too drunk to know better. "You danced with Archer at my welcoming party."

The Vulcan gave an unperceivable sigh as the Ithanite smiled. "Dance!"

Skon turned to her. "Ambassador, there are times when diplomacy is painful." Shooting his eyebrow into the air, he wished her the Vulcan version of luck. "Pain is best dealt with quickly."

Closing her eyes, she pushed herself from her seat and moved toward Ki'ar.

---

Mel hovered over Jon's bed and stared at him, waiting for some sign or signal he was alive. The Vulcan doctor had instructed her to let him rest, but she couldn't resist hanging around occasionally – especially the day he was brought to consciousness. For some reason, that day, she put an extra effort into her makeup and ensured her hair was neatly brushed and tucked behind her ears.

When Jon's eyes fluttered open, she felt her heart racing.

"Admiral," she said. "Jon!"

The weakest of smiles passed over his lips. "Hey," he said, his voice groggy with medication.

Dr. Sakot turned to Melanie and explained everything that was wrong with him in his most dispassionate of tones: one failed kidney and spleen removed, approximately 40 centimeters of large intestines removed, an inflamed liver being treated and a human system receiving the latest in cell regeneratives, anti-inflammatories, pain relievers and sedatives.

Archer had apparently heard it before from the doctor. "Good as new."

"That's just the medication talking," she said with a teasing smile.

Being new information to her, she asked a few questions about his chance to fully recover and how long it would take. She was relieved to hear the results: his chances of fully recovering were good, even though it would take nearly three months to do so. The Vulcan was surprised, although he didn't use those words, that the captain managed to survive with the injuries he'd sustained.

Turning her attention back to the patient, she leaned against the railing of his bio-bed.

"You nearly died on me," she said.

"I'll try to do better next time," he replied. The wisecrack was there, but his words were slightly slurred and quiet.

A grin made it to her face. "We'll be back on Earth in about a month."

"Porthos?" he asked.

"Commander T'Nara said your 'subservient quadruped' is doing fine. Lt. Mayweather is watching him." She smiled. "Don't worry, we'll be transferring onto the ship soon."

"All the prisoners from the planet – the diplomats and crew of the Excelsior?"

Mel sighed. "Most of them lived. Although none of them remember being held or who held them. They're all aboard the Toltek and should make it back to Earth in a few weeks."

"Good," he said. After a long pause, his eyes a little glazed, he spoke again. "You didn't go to the Vulcans on the planet."

"No," she said. She wasn't sure if she saw thanks in his eyes or disappointment. "I'm sorry."

"I'm glad you didn't." His smile turned a little sharper.

"Well, after the dressing down I received …."

"Sorry about that."

"Me, too," she said.

He looked over at the Vulcan who seemed busy and then lowered his voice, placing his hand on hers. "What happened back on the planet--"

"Just relax, Jon. It's important you get your rest."

"I think we should talk about it."

"It's okay. We'll have plenty of time--"

Archer looked toward the doctor and in a much louder voice asked to have a few minutes alone with her. As if the idea was foreign, the Vulcan wandered around a bit before eventually leaving the medical facility.

Jon took a deep breath.

"Mel," he said. "You're a beautiful woman, funny, smart …. I'm flattered."

A smile crept over her lips, and she relished the moment, placing a hand over his. "I think whatever we have to discuss can wait."

Gazing down at his hand, he shook his head. "Mel, I'm trying to say …. I'm flattered, but there's someone else."

"You _were _near death. I was just upset."

He furrowed his brow slightly, as if understanding it was a little more than just that, and she looked away in embarrassment.

"I'm seeing Ambassador T'Pol," he said.

For a moment, she thought her jaw had touched the floor.

"Seeing isn't quite the right word, but I'm guessing it's as good as any."

She'd been wondering many things, _that _wasn't the first one that came to mind. "The comment I made about your prejudice toward the Vulcans--"

"It's all right."

Her shoulders dropped.

"Hey," he said. "You followed my orders, even if you didn't believe in them. And questioning them shouldn't have been a problem. I overreacted.

"T'Pol and I began seeing each other a few days after the bombing. But, I've loved her a long time … much longer than just a few weeks."

"Why are you telling me this?" she asked.

"I guess I'm trying to let you know it's not about you."

She still didn't meet his gaze.

"You shouldn't be embarrassed of anything," he said. His hand reached up barely able to cup her cheek. "I'm not."

The faint traces of a smile wiggled across her face. "Okay."

"Okay," he said.

The doctor emerged from nowhere and Mel noticed Jon left his hand poised against her face instead of withdrawing it in embarrassment.

"The admiral should rest," said the Vulcan. There was no polite cough or other excuse and he went about his business.

"Thanks for everything," said Jon. Carefully, he set his hand down to his side and tilted his head toward his doctor. "Did you know she helped save my life?"

Dr. Sakot's face was stoic, without even the smallest traces of interest. "No."

Mel said, "I guess I did … despite you destroying my ship. Some pilot you are."

With the last quip, and watching his eyes glimmer with amusement, the doctor placed a hypospray against his neck and his voice got more hoarse and words more slurred.

"See you tomorrow?" he asked.

"Sure," she said.

And with that, his eyes closed.

When she left Sickbay, there was a part of her that wondered whether his relationship with T'Pol was meant to last and whether he'd change his mind.

"_I've loved her a long time … much longer than a few weeks," he said._

_Not a chance_, she thought. _I'm sure I only had a schoolgirl crush on him anyway._

She sighed.

----

The aftermath of the third week of Ithanite parties caused Shran's head to throb and made it impossible for him to lift his face, which he noted was stuck on the his couch with drool as the adhesive. The moment his antennae bobbled, his daughter ran to him.

"Are you going to make me breakfast?" asked Tallah. "You said you would."

The young girl was dressed in her black leather outfit and she was brandishing a small circular weapon. Suddenly, as if her father didn't react quickly enough, she folded her arms.

"You said we would practice fighting today."

_Good, Grendal._

Holding his head, he noticed his antennae drooped and he nodded, pushing himself off the couch with annoyance.

"A member of the Imperial Guard always keeps his promises, Tallah."

She smiled at the news and practiced her moves as he headed for the kitchen. When he got there, he saw Tares dressed in only her workout outfit – half a shirt and shorts that showed off her long legs. Gulping, he made his way past her.

"I have to make breakfast."

"I thought you said Jhamel typically handles that," said Tares.

"I like to do so occasionally, after all I am the male." It was tradition for men to be the homemakers, taking care of offspring, cooking meals … Andorian females were the stronger of the sex, taller and more powerful.

As he stood in front of the oven, cursing human appliances, the Andorian woman whispered in his ear.

"I enjoyed last night."

An antennae stiffened and he turned to her. "I don't remember much of what happened."

Just as she was about to open her mouth, he heard the terminal beep – something that made his muscles ache – and he rushed to grab it. The screen materialized to T'Pol and she wore a slight amount of concern on her face. Shran narrowed his eyes and he waited.

"What?" he asked.

"Did you, Gral and Tares have a good time?"

She looked cross, so he decided to wait her out.

T'Pol said, "Three weeks is enough time dancing, drinking and seeing women for the Ithanite to decide whether he wants to join us."

"Gral didn't want to push him." Then he gave a glower. "Having you and Skon there last night would've helped."

"We are through being your chaperones."

He scoffed. "Chaperones! You and your aide seemed to be having a good time at Bar at the End of the Universe."

Her eyes narrowed further. "I believe Ki'ar slipped a concoction into my drink."

"I saw you drink three Andorian ales." Shran smiled through her mild protest. "It's the loosest I've seen you. It made you fun."

He remembered the little Vulcan taking her outer robe off, something she did infrequently, and recalling with a gleam in her eye about the interactions she'd had with Shran and Gral. The blue man figured it was nostalgia for the Pink Skin; after all he was returning home soon. And somehow each of the stories she told made her former captain the hero – not quite the way he recalled events unfolding.

And then a frown smacked across his face when he remembered Skip helped her home. He was about to inquire about that, when she spoke again.

T'Pol, "Regardless, I believe Ki'ar is stalling."

He nodded as the Vulcan sighed, lowering her voice.

She asked, "Did Jhamel find out?"

"Find out? About what?" he asked. Nervously, he eyed Tares who began helping prepare Tallah's breakfast.

"You and your aide seemed quite engaged with each other before Skon and I left."

Shooting his gaze out of the corner of his eye to his daughter, he announced to his family that he'd finish the conversation upstairs. Running to his den, he turned on the monitor and when he saw T'Pol's face, he ran back downstairs to turn it off and disengage it, walking away with a component that would bring it to life. Tallah was too curious, and Tares could figure out how to turn it on.

When he got upstairs, he leaned in. "What happened?"

"You don't remember?" asked T'Pol.

He squirmed and his antennae drooped. "No."

T'Pol conveyed a story that made him turn pale – one in which he and his aide were practically all over each other. She commented that they kissed, let their antennae scoop against each other and that he followed Tares into the bathroom twice before she was able to shoo him away. When the Vulcan left, Tares' tongue was running on the end of his antennae as Gral tried to warn him and the Ithanite smiled in delight.

A hand combed over his face. "I woke up on the couch. I don't remember what happened last night, but I will never forgive myself if I mated with Tares alone. What would my child think?"

The Vulcan pointed her gaze at him. "Perhaps you should have considered that before."

"Jhamel has become more fiery, but …."

He heard footsteps outside the door and swallowed hard. It was his wife. He instinctively knew.

Pushing back the door, she appeared rubbing her hand across her bloated tummy.

"Thy'lek, we have to talk."

There was an Andorian saying, it was time to face the firing squad. He wondered if he lived to tomorrow, which he was beginning to doubt, whether he would be the one to contact the Ithanite and tell him enough was enough. T'Pol ended the call, as if she sensed familial strife, and indicated she would talk to Gral right away. The blue man only nodded in confirmation.

"Was that T'Pol?" asked Jhamel. Her blind eyes skimmed over the room and he hung his head.

"Yes."

"She must be looking forward to Jonathan coming home."

"I suppose," he said.

Waddling to the one of the leather chairs where he often smoked cigars, she lowered herself into it slowly.

She said, "We should probably talk about last night."

"Yeah," he said, heaving a sigh.

"Aenar aren't like Andorians."

_Oh, Grendal, I mated with Tares!_ "I know, my love."

"More than that, I'm nearly due."

"I know … I can't explain what happened."

"Tallah is half-Aenar. It must be confusing for her," she said. "The entire episode."

"Yes, I know. Can you forgive me?"

"Thy'lek, I can't mate with you like that again."

An antenna poked up. _Did we share our bed with Tares?_

The Aenar frowned and shook her head. "No, although I was afraid you'd ask again."

Shock crossed his features briefly and he scratched at his white hair.

Jhamel described the night. Apparently the lustfest Tares and he were involved in was so that she could lure another man to their table and Shran could only nod in agreement. Every Andorian knew there was nothing more alluring than seeing two people near mating. Back on his home planet, it was a sure way to pick up a partner or two. It didn't quite work with the human man, but after she chatted with him for a bit, she invited him back to the house where they made a beeline for her room.

By that point, Shran stalked onto their marriage bed. And his demure wife described such passion between the two of them, husband and wife, that hearing the description made _him _– a member of the Imperial Guard – blush with modesty. With a little clarity, Shran could almost remember noises emanating from the other room, pushing him on for more as his wife grabbed at his antennae and cooed for him, telling him she could sense everyone's emotions.

"_Yes," she said. _

_The Andorian smirked and tangled them further in the sheets. As they were nearly at their apex, their daughter wandered in and screamed in horror or confusion before running out. Jhamel encouraged him to talk with her, and although completing the task at hand seemed important, he was a devoted husband. Gathering a few clothes, he followed his traumatized child into her room. It was the male's responsibility to take care of the brood, and he wouldn't be any kind of thaan if he let that duty slip._

_The little girl looked at him with bright, teary eyes. "What were you doing to mother?"_

_A glimmer shone in his eyes before he snuffed it out. "I was doing what any husband wants to do to his wife."_

_She waited._

"_Tallah, we were mating." It was a delicate subject, and he decided to get to the core of it._

"_It looked like you and mother were in battle."_

_Shran grinned again, remembering his wife – despite being heavily pregnant – tore at his skin like an Andorian._

"_Not battle. Mating is how you were born."_

_She narrowed her eyes. "I thought the oolon dragged me by me antennae into the nest you and mother built?"_

_His smirk twitched. "You're old enough to know the truth. Andorians have strong mating urges and your mother and I are drawn to each other like kelips in the Great Thaw._

"_That desire created you and that desire created your unborn brother."_

_She blinked. "Mating?"_

"_If you're interested in the science behind it, I can show you information about that tomorrow."_

"_Can you help me practice with my blade first?" she asked. _

_He huffed at his little girl, who'd already forgotten about everything she'd witnessed. "Yes."_

"_And I want breakfast tomorrow. Pancakes."_

"_Can't you eat the raw food your mother and I prepare?"_

_She shook her head, telling him how a weakling human named Anne had the starch for breakfast on the weekend and that everyone liked that Pink Skin girl. _

_Shran said, "Well, then you can have pancakes." Mumbling to himself, he decided to pull a recipe tonight._

_Tucking his girl in and laying the blade she loved beside her night table, he let his antennae wander over her a second. _

"_You are the pride of your mother and I, young one."_

_She smiled. "Let's not get sentimental."_

_He nodded and pressed at her chest. "Your heart beats like an Imperial Guard."_

_After he headed out, his smile turned leering as he headed back to his room. His naked wife was in bed, but asleep – letting a tiny snore that came with pregnancy leave her lips. Crestfallen, he heard the racket Tares made down the hall and almost pounded on her door to quiet her. _

_Heading eventually downstairs, he pulled a recipe and set in on the kitchen counter and then headed to the couch. _

"_Mating with Tares would've been a mistake." He laid his head on the pillow. "A huge one."_

His lips curled effortlessly. "Jhamel, I have chosen you and Aenar ways despite not always understanding them. Mating is important to me, but nothing could be worth losing you."

Jhamel gave a grin back and kissed him on the cheek. Even at his age, it still made his knees go weak and he stroked her hair.

"You're telling me that Tares needs to go?" he asked.

Jhamel nodded. "I enjoy her company, but I can feel her desire and it makes me insatiable."

As Shran sloped his cheek more, Jhamel gave a mild laugh. "I know you enjoy when I am insatiable, but we could hurt our offspring, especially if we engage in activities like last night."

A sigh left his lips. "All right. I'll ask Tares to leave today."

He looked in his wife's eyes. "I've been meaning to tell you--"

"I know you were attracted to her," she said. "Do you not think I have found other men attractive?"

A frown covered his face. "Like who!"

A kiss pressed against his cheek. "Sexual attraction isn't the only thing between us, Thy'lek."

He nodded and felt her belly, although he knew it was more than just family.

Standing, a sparkle formed in her eye. "Maybe we can show each other?"

That idea sounded promising to him, and he stood letting his hands gather in hers. "I'll be more careful," he said.

"And so will I," she said.

----

A week ago, T'Pol noted that the survivors of the Excelsior showed up and made a beeline for Starfleet medical. Although Phlox wouldn't say, she believed that their loss of memory was created, as if their memories had been wiped clean. Among the survivors were Ambassador Neville Simon, Commander Stiles, Gral's aide, and a few others including Staron, her old aide. She and Skon gathered near Staron's bedside in Starfleet Medical, but he seemed nearly comatose and unresponsive. Phlox assured her she'd have to wait for a few weeks at the most before anyone could talk to them. She held the smallest smidgen of anxiety, wondering if they would remember being held by Romulans who looked like Vulcans.

She'd even hatched a plan with Minister T'Pau should that prove true.

Gral had made some progress with the Ithanite, after prohibiting further parties, the Ithanite decided to start really listening, in earnest, to what was being said. The little copper man in his own defense explained that his people wanted to see their old enemies (the Vulcans and Andorians) inebriated before striking a deal, and was content with what he saw and the friendship they had with each other. Although he pledged to return to Ithan and discuss the matter with their leader the chief, he indicated he believed they would have their help.

T'Pol also counted down the days until Jonathan would return – three. She was scheduled to collect Porthos, when the creature arrived at space dock, and the Vulcan wanted to be there ahead of time. It was only ahead of Commander T'Nara's ship – the one that held Jonathan – by a few days. Arriving a little early, she watched in space dock as the Potomac – scarred from battle – docked in the spaceport and waited anxiously for the vessel to depressurize. When the airlock door slid open, she placed her hands behind her back and took on a stoic gaze, something Trip would've called years ago her "poker face."

Suddenly the animal bolted out the door, barking, with what sounded like Mayweather's voice asking it to heel. She crouched down as the Beagle dug his paws into her robes and licked her at least twice, tail flailing wildly behind.

"T'Pol!" said Mayweather. He finally caught up, leash in hand. "Sorry, this dog just doesn't want to mind anyone."

"It never has," she said. There were a wink she wanted to present the dog, but refrained and instead picked it up into her arms as she'd seen Jonathan do millions of times before.

"Thank you for caring for him," she said.

"Ah – it was fun. And I didn't watch him the entire time." He gave the Beagle a scratch behind the ears.

The two began walking down the hallway, Mayweather slowing unnecessarily, when T'Pol caught something in her bond, it was a purring laugh, but felt closer than parsecs away ….. Spinning she realized her mate was emerging from the Potomac, wheeled out by Captain Vega, with a smile plastered on his face.

T'Pol nearly dropped Porthos before he managed to squirm free and then swiftly headed to Jonathan. He looked as thin as he was in the Expanse, if not thinner. His skin was pale – rather than tan – and the light that hit his eyes had weakened. A smile tugged at his lips and she could tell he wondered what the appropriate greeting would be. Straightening up, he held two fingers out to her and hoped she would take it.

_Not today._

"Jonathan."

A lump formed in her throat and despite the offer of his fingers, she swept past them and placed, calmly, her arms around him and pressing her cheek to his. It was a hug, which she squeezed tighter when his hands wrapped around her.

"I have missed you," she whispered.

She drew back and looked into his eyes and then crushed her lips to his – unVulcanly – for a few seconds. Instead of fighting it, his hands wound to her hair and he held her in the kiss. Although their mouths didn't part, she could feel the yearning beneath her mouth and knew he could feel hers. When the two separated, she noticed his cheeks were crimson and she felt hers transform to dark green.

The Vulcan glanced over at the captain behind him, who'd turned her head to give them privacy. There was something else in the woman's countenance, as if she disapproved of their embrace.

Before T'Pol could say anything to the woman, Travis joined them.

"Sorry, T'Pol, the admiral made my promise," said Mayweather.

She glared at her mate. "I will never understand the human need for the element of surprise."

Jonathan laughed. "When you met me on Earth less than a year ago, you and Admiral Gardner insisted on surprising me."

"That was purely of Admiral Gardner's making."

_Oh, the hell it was, he thought to her. _

_In return, she let her eyes twinkle._

The Vulcan broke her contact and spoke to Captain Vega who was shifting from one foot to another.

"I am Ambassador T'Pol," she said to the woman. Extending a hand, she waited for her to take it, which took a few seconds. The woman was petite – both of build and height – and the Vulcan looked down at her, noticing that despite her tiny bones, the captain was strong.

Vega said, "Jon was telling me stories about your missions."

_Jon? _"Which ones?" asked T'Pol.

A sideways smile crossed Jonathan's lips. "Remember the time you and I rescued Travis from the space station? Stuff like that."

"I see," she said. He gave her a wink and suddenly she felt warm on the inside. "I could wheel the admiral back."

The captain relinquished him without protest and T'Pol noticed her stride lengthened to collect her mate as Travis, Captain Vega and Porthos walked beside them.

_I had not realized you transferred to the Potomac, _she thought to him.

_T'Nara was able to make up some of the speed. They're only a few hours behind. _Grinning, he thought, _I've been reading a little of the Kir'Shara and learned a few tips on sequestering thoughts. It's been helpful._

A hand reached over his shoulder and his fingers touched hers as Travis yammered on.

"T'Pol, you may want to know the admiral promised to buy a drink to everyone in the fleet, and I'm hoping he keeps that promise. I'd hate to piss off the commander of the Toltek, who seemed particularly happy about the suggestion."

Archer shrugged. "I was on medication."

Vega giggled. "Not that much."

Jon sighed. "I told them all around seven tonight. It's an hour after Commander T'Nara's ship docks."

The gleam in T'Pol's eyes vanished briefly. "Tonight?"

"I can't let them down," he said. _Although I'm hoping for a reunion with you a little later._

"_You want me to attend?" she asked._

"Wouldn't be a party without you," he said. "If you're up for it."

"Where is it being held?" she asked.

Travis beamed. "The 602 Club. And I already have my sights set on a double."

Archer gave the faintest frowns. "You do remember I live on a Starfleet stipend."

Travis clapped him on the back. "I do, but you may want to warn Ranol. He's just downright giddy and has already invited Ambassador Shran and his aide, as well as some of his friends."

He pinched the bridge of his nose. "I don't want to know how large this party is – do I?"

Captain Vega said, laughing, "Only if you like to live in fear."

_Welcome home, conquering hero, _thought T'Pol. And she felt the bond stir between them. "_We can discuss _our _situation later. Tonight, you are their admiral. Tomorrow, you will be my mate."_

"Looking forward to it," he said aloud. His eyes met T'Pol's. _"Maybe we can sneak away early, ashal-veh."_

"Indeed," she said.

TBC

A/N: We're nearing the end of the second arc. Feel free to tell me what you want more of and less of. It really does help!


	33. Chapter 33

A/N: First, thank you all for the sweet comments. It's nice to know you enjoyed the pay off for the most part and that I'm appealing to the things you like.

Second, it happened again: I lost a version of this story. Sorry it's taken me so long to re-write it, folks!

Last, Night's Darkness, you were reading my mind! That's exactly what happens next. Keep making suggestions on the Shran front; I'd be happy to spend more time crafting the story of that character.

---

The shuttle ride was cramped, filled with members of various crews who managed to dock at the same spaceport all eager to get back to Earth. Many of the crew from the Potomac, Thames and other spacecrafts filled the large shuttle and T'Pol and Archer were packed in tight along with them. Archer managed to stand without complaints, but T'Pol knew he was weak. She also knew he wouldn't ask to occasionally sit down; the man was stubborn and had unyielding pride.

Standing near him allowed her to peruse him, noticing a few more gray hairs, a tiny scar at the top of his forehead, a thinner physique and a countenance that seemed fatigued. Gone was the irrepressibility Jonathan had; for the first time since the Expanse, she saw someone who realized his own mortality.

Letting her fingers play surreptitiously with his, she eyed him and waited until he met her gaze.

"I'm all right," he said. A wink followed it.

She welcomed the comment by stroking his fingers with her own.

When the shuttle landed and its doors opened, the crewmen streamed out of the shuttle and T'Pol noticed a throng of people in the bay. A grin spread over her mate's face as she saw Shran, Gral, Hoshi, Malcolm, Gardner and even Skon.

Shran swaggered up to Archer and put out his forearm, which Archer took readily.

"We've been worried about you, Pink Skin, but like a Denebian crawler you are impossible to kill. It's good to see you, my friend."

Archer's lip sloped to the right.

Mel, who was directly behind the admiral, answered. "Well, his near-misses with death aren't for lack of trying to get himself killed."

Shran laughed, his antennae poking forward, and a sly look in his eye as his gaze shifted from Mel to Archer. T'Pol knew the blue man would later accuse Jonathan of having a tryst with her, and silently – behind her mental shields and out of her bond – she decided her mate should squirm under that allegation if only for a few minutes.

Shran pointed at Vega. "I like you – a woman with fire. You are--?"

"Captain Vega," she said. "You must be Ambassador Shran."

The two clasped hands and soon everyone in the room introduced themselves to each other. T'Pol noticed Ki'ar tapped Archer on the knee to speak and amusement rooted itself on the admiral's face. 

_Nice fez, _Jon thought

_It's a symbol of his office, _she thought.

Skon approached carefully, walking on the balls of his feet as he was prone to do, curious and yet cautious. T'Pol straightened.

She said, "Skon, this is Admiral Archer."

"I presume the correct greeting is: Welcome home, admiral."

"Thanks," said Jonathan. "It's nice to finally meet you. I know T'Pol thinks highly of you."

"It is an honor to serve Ambassador T'Pol. She is quite an extraordinary woman," he said. "Not many Vulcans are as … open minded as she."

Archer nodded, his eyes turning to her as she bowed her head in an attempt to disguise the flush that rose to her cheeks.

Skon said, "I have particularly … enjoyed our trips to Mandarin Cove."

"Mandarin Cove?" asked Jonathan.

"We go there often. A Chinese restaurant."

"I've been there." Jonathan paused and T'Pol saw his plastered smile begin to wilt. "That's right. You live down the hall from her. That's … _convenient_."

"It enables us to work closely together for long periods of time where I can attend to her needs. It also provides us the opportunity to socialize, something I have come to appreciate."

_I bet_, Jonathan thought.

T'Pol's eyes went to her mate's and she shook her head. _Don't become jealous._

_T'Pol, you took him to _our _restaurant. _

_Our restaurant? Other patrons also dine there._

Shaking his head he said a gruff farewell before making a beeline to Hoshi and Malcolm. While Archer pumped Reed's hand, T'Pol looked back at her aide, who had an odd gleam to his eye – as if he knew he won this round of verbal banter with the admiral. Dismissing it as her imagination, the Vulcan sauntered over to talk with Hoshi and noticed Captain Vega came over to the admiral, telling him he probably needed to sit down for a bit. T'Pol instead allowed him to reach a hand over her shoulder and lean on her.

After a few minutes they heard Shran over the commotion. "I hear you're taking everyone to The 602 Club for drinks and food. I've asked Jhamel to join us there."

"Everyone?" Archer furrowed his brow. "Wait, I only said drinks."

A gloved hand pointed to the top of the shuttle bay and the Andorian announced loudly. "I think we should head there now."

T'Pol watched as people darted to their shuttles and Ki'ar, the copper-skinned Ithanite grin wildly, pushing legs out of his way to clamor into Shran's vehicle.

"It's only four thirty," said Archer.

T'Pol leaned over, helping him to the shuttlecar. "The Vulcans have an ancient saying: never promise spoils of war to soldiers who are poor and greedy."

Travis jogged behind them and asked for a ride, as did four others from the Potomac. One look at the young men – battle weary and anxious to celebrate that they lived ­– made T'Pol agree.

"Of course," said T'Pol. "But, perhaps we should leave Porthos at your apartment."

The dog yipped at his name as Archer lumbered behind it.

Travis grinned. "I don't mind waiting in the car while you drop Porthos off."

_So much for any time alone, _thought Jon.

T'Pol thought, _There will be other opportunities … tonight._

----

Much to both T'Pol and Archer's chagrin, the entire entourage headed to the 602, starting the party at approximately ten minutes after five at night. Ruby was there, and bought the first round as the crowd got cranking. The music, made louder by the Ithanite, was barely heard under the crowd by seven. And by nine the entire room was a cacophony of sound. Ranol from the Toltek told wild stories to Shran as the Andorians huddled over some Andorian ale. T'Nara conversed with Skon, explaining how illogical human tactics were actually helpful, most likely saving the fleet. Gral's wife Martog joined them, swilling more beer than her husband and Jhamel sat in a corner quietly conversing with Hoshi about her upcoming wedding with Malcolm. Reed owned the dartboard, taking a few brave crewmen down while Travis and Kelby took care of the people who served under them, ordering drinks and ensuring everyone was well hydrated. Mel met up with Thames' crew, explaining how she'd barely survived and toasting fallen crew as well as a solid and sturdy ship. And Ki'ar made a point to talk with every good-looking woman in the entire bar, smiling with deviance as he spoke.

Archer made the rounds. Because the bar was cramped, he did his best to hobble from one table to another. He received pats on the back and made sure to pay his respect, drinking to dead comrades – like Captain Richards. Somber moments faded quickly; everyone was too happy to be alive and back on Earth, and funerals would start in two days. There was time yet to grieve.

Shran cornered Archer for more than thirty minutes, explaining in detail everything that had happened while he'd been away, including a brief mention of how "Scamp was zero-ing in on T'Pol like a fay-dor." The conversation went on, covering every nuance of his relationship with Tares, discussions about the Ithanite and more. Jon looked helplessly toward the bathroom, feeling his bladder call out for relief. As the admiral made his excuses, Shran held onto his arm.

"I want to talk with you about something … it's something General Krag asked me to convey to Gardner."

The seriousness of his eyes, made Archer nod.

"Maybe I can have your ear tomorrow?" asked Shran.

Agreeing, he made an urgent departure to the bathroom. After jiggling the handle of the commode of the unisex bathroom, laughing that they hadn't fixed it since he was a Commander, and following washing his hands, he opened the door to see T'Pol. Although she wasn't in line for the restroom, she was close in proximity. He felt his lips slope up immediately. A hand wrapped around her bicep, gently tugged her around and then led her toward the bathroom.

_Alone at last,_ he thought. "I haven't seen you all night."

While being led, she whispered, "I was hoping we'd get the opportunity to speak."

Huddling her into the small room, he shut the door behind them.

"How about now?" he asked.

"Jonathan, we're in the restroom."

He smiled before planting his lips on hers and thrilled at the tingle that shot through his lips and into his stomach. When he parted from their embrace, which was several seconds later, he placed his forehead against hers again.

He said, "I've missed you, ashal-veh."

"And I you."

His hand cupped her cheek and his eyes scrutinized her face and hair; her tresses almost touched her shoulders. The robe she wore, he knew through their bond, was for special occasions – red and gold with runes down the front. Her eyes shone almost amber in the light, holding the same curiosity that remained there for years even when she was under his command.

He said, "You let your hair grow."

"I did."

"You look beautiful."

Reaching on her tippy-toes, she provided him a small kiss. And then her fingers ran over the remainder of his tiny scar that ran near his hairline.

"We have much to discuss," she said.

"I know." He sighed. "Maybe we can tackle the weightier issues tomorrow. Tonight I just want to … be."

He knew discussing their bond and what happened would be a lengthy discussion and demand his full attention; it was one where she would explain various rituals and techniques for the two of them. Personally, he was hoping the discussion would tackle the next phase of their relationship, one that deserved more attention than he could give it tonight.

With his fingers skimming over the hair at her temple, he whispered to her. "Maybe tonight we can just get … reacquainted."

The remark forced her eyebrows to jump.

Leaning over, he pressed his mouth to hers. One kiss became two and then six, and soon he realized his weight crushed against her, forcing her the towel dispenser and his hand gripped the back of her head so that his tongue could explore her mouth; it'd been a long time. Melting into her, feeling her fold into his form, he thought about the unity of their thoughts. His desire became hers and soon the reverberation of the emotion clouded all other thoughts. Just as he could tell she was going to push away, the door was thrown open to reveal Shran and a beaming smile.

"Don't let me interrupt."

Archer let his head fall against her shoulder. _No privacy, not even in the bathroom._

"You did forget to lock the door," she said.

"Pink Skin, are you using this bathroom to mate? Good grendal, maybe humans need to tyla-tora more often than even thaan Andorians."

"That's not it," he said.

Shran waited, but Archer had no rebuttal. "Give us a few minutes, okay?"

"I have to go," said Shran.

"Just a few."

"I said I have to _go_!"

"Three minutes won't kill you," said Archer. Before Shran could respond, Archer closed the door and locked it. Turning to T'Pol his smile faded. "Sorry, I don't know--"

A hand on his arm reassured him that being caught kissing didn't bother her, at least not tonight. He could even feel tingles as if she too was overcome with emotion –lust.

"Did you have an okay time tonight?" he asked.

"Ki'ar continued to ask me to dance."

"He's the little copper guy?"

"Yes. Although I did enjoy conversing with Skon. He was able to update me on Staron's condition."

"I didn't know Staron made it. How is he?"

"He may recover. Apparently the only one who is awake is Commander Stiles."

"I hope he makes Captain after this," said Archer. "Being captured by the--"

Through the door they heard anger. "Hurry up!" The Andorian cursed.

Archer narrowed his eyes about to say something when T'Pol grasped his forearm. "We can continue this discussion at your apartment."

"I can be ready to go in about twenty minutes," said Jonathan. He watched her catch her breath.

"I can as well," she said.

Kissing once more, he pushed herself from her and opened the door. Shran was about to shove the admiral out of the way, when the door shut behind him.

"I have to go!" said Shran.

Archer shrugged, a hint of a smile on his face. "I guess T'Pol did as well."

"You know, Pink Skin, I _did_ miss you." The Andorian's mouth twisted into something between a smile and a snarl. "But, I forgot what a tarpig you could be."

Archer patted him on the back. "I know the feeling."

Shran's antennae lurched and he folded his arms across his chest, cursing lightly under his breath as Archer walked away. Heading to the nearest chair – one high enough for him to rest, giving his aching legs and body respite – he leaned on it. Something tugged his pant leg.

"Yes?" he asked, looking down.

"You're tall!" said Ki'ar.

A smile slid across his face. "To some."

"You the Vulcan's lover?" he asked.

Turning his head to think about the question, Archer decided to agree. "I am."

"I like her."

"So do I."

Climbing up the bistro-style chair, Ki'ar finally made it into the seat as Archer tried to refrain from helping him, despite the man's skin-like toga revealing an interesting truth about Ithanites – they wore no underclothes. The man with the fez took his hat off and wiped his sweaty brow.

"The Vulcan. She's a good dancer."

Chuckling, Archer nodded. "She's not bad."

Ruby deposited two whiskeys on the table and Ki'ar took the glass and seemed to swallow the liquid in one gulp. After setting his glass down, he wiped the back of his arm against his lips.

"I hear you almost died," said Ki'ar.

"I suppose I did."

"That woman saved you?" he asked, pointing to Captain Vega.

"She did, and so did T'Pol."

Giving an appreciative grin, Ki'ar nodded at Vega. "Pretty."

Archer decided not to verbally agree, but gave a gentle smile.

Ki'ar asked, "You her lover too?"

His brows furrowed in response. "No."

"Then she's free game?"

"I guess," said Archer.

The Ithanite grinned appreciatively, reached over to swallow the drink Archer had in front of him and then leapt off the stool to go talk with her. A chuckle nearly wormed out of his mouth as he watched the woman crouch down to look Ki'ar in the eye while he tried to hit on her.

Twenty minutes came and left, and Archer lost sight of T'Pol despite waiting by the door. It was already after eleven, and people were heading out – many of them hailing shuttle cabs because they'd had too much to drink. Travis, linked arm in arm with Tares, walked out with a lazy smile on his face. Malcolm wandered out with Hoshi, their arms wrapped around each other as he sloppily kissed her, bragging about his dart-playing ability. Ki'ar meandered out with a couple of crew women – two Archer hadn't met – ­while the little man declared how wonderful Earth was. Gral huddled Martog out the door, the two blissfully arguing with each other, their voices carrying even as they meandered down the street. Shran helped his overly pregnant wife out, Jhamel holding her bloated stomach and waddling next to him. Ruby gave Archer the bill, and he agreed to leave the tab open for the rest of the crew, despite the number of credits already racked up. Finally, he saw T'Pol stroll over with Skon in tow.

"I told Skon we could ride with us."

Archer gave the smallest of frowns and settled next to T'Pol to limp out. He could tell instinctively she threw her arm around him, helping him to the shuttle, while Skon walked quietly at their side.

When they got into the vehicle, the Vulcan aide commented on the celebration, indicating he was "fascinated by the human traditions." T'Pol and he spoke briefly about toasting, drinking to fallen comrades and the loss of human inhibitions after partaking too much alcohol. It was a comment that earned eye rolling from Archer, and he soon began to look out the window, ignoring what he surmised was flirting for a male Vulcan.

Finally, after what seemed like ages to Archer, they took stopped in front of Skon's apartment building and the Vulcan cocked an eyebrow.

"Are you not going to your abode, T'Pol?" asked Skon.

"No," she said.

"She's staying with me," said Archer. He felt a little smug for saying it, but figured the Vulcan had it coming. Letting the comment drop caused his lips to slope up and his back to straighten. It pleased him more to see Skon confused and then slightly embarrassed.

"Then, have a pleasant evening," said Skon.

"We will. You try and do the same," said Archer.

T'Pol turned her head to him the moment Skon was out of sight, causing Archer to shrug.

"What did you want me to say?" he asked.

"Jonathan."

"What?"

She narrowed her eyes and moved the vehicle forward as he explained himself.

He said, "Come on, T'Pol. You've spent most of the night with him."

"He is my aide."

"You took him to the Mandarin Cove."

"I have yet to understand the significance."

"That's our restaurant."

"I have heard that argument before and yet I do not understand."

"Can't you tell from our bond what that means to me?"

"I know it has sentimental value to you."

He agreed, "It does."

"I am unsure why. We've eaten at other restaurants."

"That one is special."

"Why?"

"It just is." He sighed and looked over to see confusion settling onto her face. "There are some experiences I only want to share with you."

A furrow formed at her eyebrows and he placed his hand over hers as if that was explanation enough. Soon their fingers met in the form of a Vulcan embrace and Archer heard himself coo for her – telling her how much he'd missed her, how beautiful she was and how much he thought about being with her again.

As soon as the shuttle was parked in his garage, he hobbled out of the vehicle and she kissed him immediately. The thrill was exquisite, causing the hair on his arms to stand at attention and goose bumps to spread over his arms. He remembered parting his lips for her and their tongues touched, shooting fire through his stomach and pounding his heart.

An arm was thrown around him and soon he put his weight on her as she led him to his apartment, the two sneaking kisses as they walked down vacant halls that threatened population. When they reached the elevator, the kisses turned fiery, and he noticed they were panting when their lips broke apart, gasping for breath. A ding sounded and the lift doors spread open, waking the two from their embraces and he shifted his weight onto her on the way to his apartment.

The air was electrifying, and he felt his body vibrate and hum at the thought of her spending the night with him. As soon as the door shut to his apartment, the two attacked each other's mouths with desperation, him thinking that it had been too damned long since he'd tasted her tongue. With ease, he slid her outer robe off, leaving her shivering in the cold air of the room with only her flimsy under-robe on, the window open to allow the breeze of San Francisco. He had already unbuttoned his shirt and despite the night air tossed it on his floor. Just as he was about to devour her mouth again, attempting to swallow her tongue in passion, she backed away.

"Perhaps I should change," she said.

He got the idea she was going to slide into something more "comfortable" and couldn't help gulping at the idea, nodding feebly. Desire turned into delight, and he shed the rest of his clothes quickly and eagerly before jumping under the covers and dimming the lights to what he decided encouraged a romantic interlude, but would allow him to see her. Fingering a few buttons beside his bed, he activated his stereo, which played a low-key jazz album with a hot saxophone, turning it down so that he could appreciate the feminine whimpers he hoped she would make tonight.

Putting his hands behind his head, he heard the bathroom door creak open and he looked up to see her in a bathrobe – her hair brushed exotically forward and dramatically. Sucking in the air, he could smell she'd scented her body with lotion, the one that he'd been dreaming about ever since he left space dock.

He curled up his lips in response and patted the bed beside him.

"You didn't waste any time," she said, looking at the clothes strewn on the floor as she swished and sashayed her way to the bed.

"No," he said, his grin turning covetous.

The moment she was about to sit down, Porthos leapt to sit in the spot she was interested in occupying, the one directly by Archer and he frowned at his dog in response. Giving the little animal a gentle shove, he noticed his Beagle was intent on occupying the space.

"Porthos, down."

The dog placed his jowls on his front paws and whined.

"Down."

T'Pol sat next to him and stroked Beagle behind the ears.

"Perhaps he has missed me as well," she said.

"Too bad," he said. With a slightly more gruff push, he forced his dog off the bed and the creature snorted before heading for his doggie bed.

"You _are _eager," said T'Pol.

He couldn't help but sound desperate. "It's been more than three months, T'Pol." Watching her eyebrow shoot up he explained it was more than that. "With your thoughts roaming around inside my head … I've been thinking about you on and off during all that time. Even fantasizing about you."

"I know."

She scooted closer and the two found their lips locked together as he maneuvered her to lie down using the pillow beside him – his body still under the covers. Lips entreated throats and earlobes, his tongue licked the tip of her ear and their hands roamed greedily along whatever bare flesh was available and his over the silk of her robe. As his hands moved to untie the knotted belt at her waist, he heard his monitor buzz; someone was trying to contact him.

T'Pol, still prone, pushed away. "What was that?"

"That was my monitor," he said.

His mouth crashed against hers again and his tongue wound around her once before she squirmed free. "It's still buzzing."

"I know. I'm ignoring it."

His mouth almost reached hers.

"Why?" she asked.

"Because I'm kind of in the middle of something important, and I don't really want to be disturbed."

He noticed the smallest trace of desire flicker in her dark brown eyes and smiled at the response. It's when his hands presumed their work, tugging at her belt to free her of her clothing.

His nose and mouth caressed her neck. "You smell so good. I almost forgot your scent."

"It's a tari plant," she said. "Quite like your aloe vera."

Finally working through the knot, his lips dipped to just below her neck and he breathed deeply, realizing he was succumbing even more to the aroma of her. Letting his hands wander her body, he began to open the material – his breath labored as he did so. Just as he saw her belly button, there was a knock at the door.

T'Pol closed the blue material. "What was that?"

"The door," he said. His eyes gazed at hers and his hands were about to wiggle back to her robe so he could see her navel again.

"Perhaps I should get it," she said.

"I want you," he whispered into her ear. "I think the person at the door can come back."

He could tell the words thrilled her and she lay back to allow him to kiss her more. His tongue hung out of his mouth to begin running it along her throat, trying to seduce her again, when he heard the knock become more insistent.

"They appear interested in contacting you," said T'Pol.

"They'll just have to go away."

Even from where they were and over the soft noise of the jazz playing in the background, they heard a pounding followed by a muffled noise. Archer's teeth nabbed the tip of her ear as he heard a familiar voice, panicked.

"Pink Skin!"

T'Pol sat up. "Shran."

Archer knitted his eyebrows. "Ignore it."

"Jonathan, what if he called earlier?"

"He can come back later."

She flattened her lips.

"He can come back later," he repeated. Lifting his hand, he let his fingers wander in her hair as he heard the commotion begin outside again.

"He'll wake the neighbors."

A growl formed at the base of his throat, and he flung some pants on, grumbling under his breath as he went to answer the door – even bare chested. When he threw it open, with a glare on his face, he noticed right away the Andorian was pale, his hair askew and his antennae rigid as if scared.

"What's wrong?" asked Archer.

"Jhamel is ready to give birth," said the Andorian, who pushed his way past Archer into the room.

A mild smile sloped up, one still annoyed and yet supportive of his friend. "Shouldn't you be with her?"

"You have to be there as well. T'Pol indicated you two agreed to be the avat."

T'Pol walked out in her robe and Archer found his attention immediately turn to her.

"Jonathan, we did agree."

For a second, he thought about the woman across from him and the serious look on her face. Despite the want, he nodded his head slowly and said with a sigh he needed a second to change. T'Pol followed behind him when the two heard Thy'lek interrupt them.

"T'Pol, you made need this," said Shran, handing her the outer robe she was wearing earlier. When she took it from his hands, the Andorian pointed to the shirt on the floor.

"Pink Skin," he said.

Archer picked it up, dressing in front of him. "Thanks."

When T'Pol alone headed into his bedroom and closed the door, Shran's antennae drooped a bit. "You'll have time to mate later."

Archer furrowed his brow. Later kept going into the night.

"How long does an Andorian take to give birth?" asked Archer.

"Depends. It can take as long as two days." When Archer's face fell, the Andorian smiled. "I bought coffee so that you can stay awake during the entire process."

"Thanks."

TBC


	34. Chapter 34

A/N: Night'sDarkness, you are always one step ahead of me and it's really like you're reading my mind. A bit scary – probably for you more so than me.

By the way, all, I know that Tallah is spelled Talla, but when I started this more than a year ago, I was unaware. So, I'm hoping everyone will forgive me if I at least stick with my own spelling to be consistent. Let's call it the ancient Andorian spelling. :-)

-----

Shran's Victorian-style house took on an eerie quiet, blue lights dancing along ceilings as the moon streamed into the darkened abode. Archer took T'Pol's hand as they walked up the staircase, wondering exactly what he would be asked to do as the "avat" – the Andorian equivalent of godparent.

Reaching the top of the stairs, he heard Phlox's voice speaking in low, encouraging tones to Jhamel.

_Do I want to see this?_ Archer thought. He'd never witnessed a woman give birth, not even a human one.

_"It's a natural part of life," _he heard from T'Pol

When they entered what Shran referred to as his unborn son's room, they saw Jhamel in a chair with what looked like a curtain around her middle, hiding the legs of the chair as well as her lower body. Her torso was covered by a hospital gown, brow was sweaty and her eyes squinted.

"Thank you for coming," she said. Even despite her giving birth, Jhamel managed to sound sweet and inviting.

"You honor us," said T'Pol. Meanwhile Archer provided a tepid smile.

Phlox grinned eagerly at the two of them. "I'm glad you agreed to see this, Admiral and Ambassador."

Shran walked toward his wife, pressing a cold compress on her head and neck and whispering in her ear. Tallah, too bored to stick around, popped in only briefly to say hello to Archer and T'Pol, as if nothing was happening, and then went back into her room to play and roam the house.

Phlox gave an explanation of what everything was while the Andorian couple let their antennae wander over each other. He pointed to the chair and told them it was used by Andorians as a birthing chair – allowing the baby to fall from a small height into a soft bedding used to make the child's nest below. Archer was about to ask whether it would hurt the infant or how Phlox would know the baby was making its way out, when the Denobulan pointed to the back of the chair indicating it would enable him to view the progress and help ensure a safe landing.

Shran said, "Andorian births don't typically need a doctor." And then softening a little, tucking his wife's head under his chin, he also explained that because she was Aenar and their child was of mixed blood, they asked for a physician.

"What do we do?" asked Archer, quietly to T'Pol.

"I believe assist in any way we can."

Right on the heels of T'Pol's statement, Shran gave Archer an order. "Get some ice for Jhamel."

Sighing, he limped out of the room and headed downstairs. Tallah was already in the kitchen, pouring herself some water.

"Looks like you'll finally get a brother. Are you excited?" asked Archer, his eyes twinkling at the girl.

"I guess."

He rummaged around in the icebox and pulled out some ice cubes, putting them into a glass.

"Do you have a brother?" she asked.

"No," he said.

"Sister?"

"No. I'm an only child."

Tallah nodded and sipped the over-sized drink as he was about finished collecting ice cubes. Before he could turn around and head back upstairs the young girl stopped him, pointing at him.

"Pink Skin, my father says you should make babies with the Vulcan. Are you going to?"

The glass nearly slipped from his grip and he squinted. "I don't know."

"I think you should, too." With a somewhat pensive expression drifting over her face, she said, "I wonder whether they'll have pointed ears."

He'd wondered whether a child born of a Vulcan and a human would have pointed ears as well; he secretly hoped they would, like Lorian or Elizabeth.

"I should probably get back," he said.

The little girl gave a smile as Archer made a beeline for the room. When he got in, he could tell Jhamel's face was going whiter – the moment creeping ever closer. Shran immediately waved over the ice cubes and pressed one against the woman's lips for her to suck on it. T'Pol meanwhile intertwined her hand with Jonathan's, sharing through their bond she believed this was a beautiful moment that she'd want to remember.

For the first time since they began dating, if Archer could call it that, he looked down at her and realized – as Tallah suggested – she could be a mother. Maybe even the mother of _his_ children. It reminded him that he'd seen her as one before – twice in fact – and she'd been admirable, loving and kind both times. Settling behind her, he wrapped his arms around her middle and held her. And he snuggled her closer when she didn't struggle away, despite the blatant affection in front of others.

Phlox ran a scanner Jhamel and smiled. "It appears we only have about eight more hours until the big event."

"Only e_ight more hours?"_ thought Archer.

"_Shran did indicate he had coffee. Perhaps you should begin to brew some."_

Archer left to head back downstairs and awaited the barrage of new questions he'd get from Shran's daughter. He liked Tallah, but occasionally the resemblance to her father was frightening in a good and bad way.

----

Shran beamed from antennae to antennae. The excitement of the moment couldn't quite surpass when Tallah was born, the child fighting through her mother's womb with the ferocity of an Imperial Guardsman, but it was close. The newness of being a father was gone, but the magic of seeing his new child wasn't lost.

He remembered the time and the nervousness of being a new dad – they were on Andoria then.

_Jhamel was huddled to Tallah's nursery and plopped into a birthing chair as an Andorian doctor kept a close eye on the Aenar. Shran himself kept poking his head underneath the seat to see if there was any action, and was disappointed almost every time. _

_No progress. Nothing._

"_Maybe if you push a little harder--" he said, as a helpful suggestion._

"_Thy'lek Shran," said Jhamel. Her voice was as smooth as a glacier, floating in the sea._

"_Yes, my love?"_

"_Shut up."_

_His antennae twisted and a frown crept over his lips. As he was about to argue with her, the doctor put a hand on his shoulder. _

"_Just be supportive," he advised. "She's in a lot of pain."_

_Shran frowned more and nodded; Jhamel was determined to get through the process without drugs – something that even an Andorian woman like Talas would've asked for. It scared him a little, especially since they were unsure exactly whether an Andorian/Aenar child would be delivered easily. _

_Offering a hand to his wife, he felt it squeezed nearly until he lost blood flow in his fingers. After prying his hand away, she grabbed his other one with the same vice-like grip. And in the spirit of being supportive, he cooed to her and provided her a few kisses to the top of her white head. _

_Minutes ticked by, seeming like hours, and Jhamel's hand grabbed the arm of the chair and she grunted._

"_I see some antennae," said the doctor._

_Shran in his excitement, left his wife's side and poked his head under the chair to see two squiggling antennae – dark blue in color. _

"_Come on, girl," said Shran to his daughter, encouraging her to come out quickly._

_It only took a few more grunts before the child plopped onto the soft nest created for her. The doctor cut the umbilical chord, cleaned out her mouth for her first breath and then her antennae. Shran's lips sloped up as his daughter opened her gigantic red eyes – the color of all Andorian newborns – and then screamed when being placed in his arms._

"_Beautiful," he said to his wife who got to hold her daughter several seconds later. _

This time, he tried to refrain from leaving Jhamel's side, despite his excitement and worry. And yet, he was glad his friends were able to come and be with her as well, to help out. With a smile on his face, he led belted out the first of the Andorian birthing songs one that he noticed chased Archer away to get more coffee.

Ten hours, two more songs, a few games and five cups of coffee later, Phlox had bided the time and silence to talk about the most interesting birthing and mating rituals, listing the natives from Rigel X as possibly the most interesting. As he described the process, Tallah ran away in fear and Archer furrowed his brow with confusion. Shran also couldn't help, but notice during the description the two he'd chosen as avat held hands.

_Family life would be good for them._

A scanner beeped, and Phlox stopped suddenly in re-describing the mating process to Archer.

"It's almost time," he said.

Archer put down his cup of coffee, suddenly coming to life.

Shran waved T'Pol and Archer over, and instructed they stand on either side of her and offer their hand in support. Before the Pink Skin could offer his, Jhamel latched onto it and wrenched it for all it was worth. Meanwhile, Shran stayed behind and stroked her hair.

"Jhamel, you're going to deliver a beautiful son."

Phlox bent down and lifted the curtain from the back, allowing privacy, and then looked back up.

"I can see the tip of an antennae," he said.

Shran resisted the urge to bend down on all fours and watch his boy push his way from his mother's womb. Instead, he stayed rooted behind her and kissed her head.

"That's good, my love." He was about to begin another rendition of an Andorian birthing song, one said to sooth the mother when he heard his wife speak.

"If you sing that stupid song one more time, I'll rip out your antennae," she said, sweetly.

"I was about to tell him the same thing," said Archer. The smile fell from his lips as Jhamel grunted and grabbed his hand for all it was worth.

Phlox said, "Ah! I see a head."

Unable to fight the excitement any longer, impatiently Shran bent down to watch his son drop to the soft nest below.

"Come on, boy!"

When his offspring didn't immediately drop, despite a few grunts from his wife, Phlox stood and encouraged the Aenar.

He said, "I know you're tired, but it's important you continue to push."

Shran looked up with alarm. "Jhamel, just a little more."

The woman's face, drenched with sweat, seemed on the verge of tears. Shran stood and faced the women he'd been married to for more than seven years.

"I know this birth has lasted longer than the last one, but you need to keep going. Just a little more."

She grunted, gritting her teeth, and her body shook. The Andorian didn't remember that happening last time, and looked over at Phlox with some concern. Worse, he could see Jhamel begin to crumble, tears spilling down her cheeks. That didn't happen either, and thought the Aenar was sensitive, she rarely cried. It scared him.

"Jhamel?" he asked.

The doctor reached for his scanner, reviewing it with a grimace. He said, "Jhamel, I don't want to frighten you, but unless the baby emerges soon, I'll need to assist you."

T'Pol spread her fingers over Jhamel's hand, turning it so she could tap the inside of her palm. Shran was about to ask what the grendal she was doing, when his wife seemed to relax a little – shoulders slouching ever so slightly and jaw beginning to unclench.

"It should help sooth the pain," said T'Pol.

"You need to push immediately," said Phlox.

"Come on, Jhamel," said Archer, joining in on the encouragement. "You can do it."

Shran looked into his wife's eyes, crouching as he did. "Just a few more times. Just a few more times for me."

Squinting her eyes, she gritted her teeth and grunted, gripping Archer's hand a little tighter and grasping T'Pol's too. Phlox bent down to check on the progress.

"The head is clear!"

After a collective sigh, Jhamel pushed a few more times, moaning and groaning as she did. And yet, not once did she complain. With the same enthusiasm, Shran eventually poked his head down and watched just as his baby fell onto the nest below. Phlox offered the Andorian cut the umbilical chord, which he did with a smile, the doctor cleaned the baby's mouth and antennae and then settled it in Shran's arms. Looking down at his child, he grinned and watched as two red eyes looked up and yet instead of screaming, this child cooed. Unlike Tallah, the baby had light blue skin, almost white like its mother.

_He has the peaceful spirit of his mother. This child won't be a warrior. _

And that made Shran smile more. He placed their son in his wife's arms and she finally let the tears she'd been holding back flow as the Andorian felt a sniffle, too.

Tallah, who'd managed to miss most of the excitement, finally came in to see her baby brother and curled up her lip.

"He's wrinkled," she said.

Shran threw his arms open for his daughter, which she eventually ran into, and he pointed at the baby.

"His name should be Gareb," said Thy'lek. "He should be named after your brother."

Jhamel disagreed, wiping away a few tears. "His name should be Shras. It means peace-maker in Aenar."

"Fitting," said Shran.

As the moment was drawing to a close, Shran almost forgot the additional duties of the avat. He asked Tallah to bring back his ushaan-tor and when the girl held aloft the blade, Shran immediately reached for Archer's thumb and cut into his skin.

"What the--!" said the Pink Skin.

"Relax," said Shran.

Grabbing the bloody thumb, Shran rubbed it onto Shras' belly swishing and swirling it, in the sign of protection. And then he turned to T'Pol, who offered up her index finger. The blade sliced into her skin and then he smeared the green blood over his child's stomach with the same writing. Watching the red and green blood mix, he looked at his two friends, remembering they'd been curled into each other's arms for most of the night.

_They are a good choice to protect my son._

Jhamel, exhausted, but glowing hoisted her child to T'Pol, offering the Vulcan hold it. Swaddled in a white blanket, the Vulcan scooped the baby into her arms and watched it curiously. Shras' little antennae roamed liked feelers until it caught her neck, causing the boy to gurgle. A finger swept against the boy's cheek and T'Pol looked earnestly at Jhamel.

"He's beautiful."

Archer's hand went over her back and he looked on with a faint smile.

"Do you want to hold him?" Shran asked Archer.

Nodding, he took the child from T'Pol. The baby fussed a little under his care, and T'Pol suggested using a different hold that quieted Shras right away. Phlox was the next to cuddle the boy, gently swaying him from side to side until he went to sleep.

"You seem to be a natural," said Shran.

"My extended family includes _many _children," he said.

Shran pointed to the nest and the doctor walked carefully over and set the boy into the Andorian version of a crib. With a satisfied sigh, the Andorian sang the last of the birth songs, one that drew the ceremonies to a close. Prideful, he noted Jhamel didn't stop him, and in a tenor voice called out to welcome his child into the world.

---

T'Pol watched Archer rub his hand over his face as he lumbered to Phlox's shuttle. Offering an arm around his waist, he gave a gentle smile, appreciative of the help.

"It's been a long night," he said.

"It has," she whispered back.

Phlox, beaming, pointed to his vehicle and spoke of how exciting births always were. "It's truly the best part of being a physician."

"I can understand why," said T'Pol, getting into his shuttle.

The doctor then enthusiastically proceeded to go over the highlights of the night, Andorian culture and their birthing practices some of which weren't followed. He noted in particular that sometimes Andorians staged a mock-battle to make their daughter or son a warrior. As Phlox rattled on, T'Pol noticed Archer look out the window; it's when she decided to contact him through the bond.

"_That was a remarkable experience,"_ she thought to him.

"_Yeah."_

"_You have been quiet."_

He looked over at her. "_Just thinking."_

T'Pol took a deep breath. "_You know, we _could _have children. It may take help from Phlox, but it is theoretically possible for a Vulcan-human child to live into adulthood."_

His hand reached around hers. "_Maybe because we've been friends so long, we've skipped some of the steps to dating – like finding out whether we both want_ _children."_

"_You were wondering whether it was scientifically possible; I was merely providing facts. For example, Lorian – with Phlox's help – lived more than one hundred years." _

"_I know,"_ he thought. "_But, that was on an Enterprise where mixed races were commonplace. What kind of life would that child have here on Earth?"_

"_Shran and Jhamel seem unbothered by the same question."_

He sighed. "_That's different. The only outward difference in their appearance is skin color."_

"_Besides my ears, it appears that is our only difference." _Narrowing her eyes, she watched over his countenance, which included flattened lips; there was more. "_Do you _want _children?"_

"_I'm not sure." _Her eyes met his and despite trying not to look disappointed, he hurled a small frown at her. "_I'm over fifty, T'Pol. I'm middle aged. If I were to have a son or daughter now, I'd be more than seventy when they entered college."_

"_Humans can live as long as one hundred and twenty."_

"_It's rare." _

"_So your concern is that you are too old? My father was more than 100 when I was born."_

He was about to answer when the shuttle arrived at Jonathan's complex. Giving a fond farewell, the Denobulan dropped them off. As she watched the shuttle zoom into the distance, she reached her hand around his middle and he leaned on her again. In silence, they walked into the building, into the elevator and down the hall to his apartment. When they reached his place, and after he let himself in, keeping the door ajar, he turned around.

"Listen, if you don't want to continue this--" he said.

Through the bond, she was aware of how he believed it sounded, stupid, but he felt compelled to say the words. He was about to open his mouth and say something else, equally silly, when she placed her lips on his. When they broke from their kiss, she raised an eyebrow at him.

She said, "Answering you are not sure you want children is hardly 'no.'"

"It's not a 'yes.'"

Leading him to the couch, she helped him sit.

T'Pol said, "A bond is not something to be taken lightly. The one I had with Trip was caused by a child created without our will or knowledge. It placed hardship on the two of us, confusing both of us when that bond was created and when it ended."

Archer's brow furrowed.

She continued, "Our bond, Jonathan, was formed because we care about each other, deeply so, and have – to a certain extent – for some time. I do not wish to sever this link because you are _unsure _you want children."

After several seconds passed, he finally said, "I saw you hold Shras tonight. You just … you looked beautiful, like you should be a mother."

"Isn't it my decision?" she asked.

"I love you too much for you to give away that opportunity," he said. "And it's best we settle this now before we become further involved."

_You do not understand. We are already much more than just involved, _she thought. _We have chosen each other – no matter what. And, I have already given you my thoughts on the matter: being with you is more important than giving birth to offspring._

The two stared into each other's eyes and she knew through their connection that Jonathan didn't feel worthy of such devotion. Gently pressing her fingers against his, she disagreed and questioned his adoration toward her. It led to kisses, which turned passionate and as he began to tug his shirt off, she announced that she wanted to slip into her robe. It was illogical, but she wanted this – their first time since he was back – to be memorable.

He headed to his bed, eagerly removing clothing and she shut herself in his bathroom. Brushing her hair forward, fixing her makeup and rubbing lotion over her skin, she slipped into a blue robe – wearing nothing else. She looked into the mirror once more before opening the door.

Sprawled under the covers was Jonathan, his eyes closed and light snore leaving is lips.

T'Pol sighed, turned off the rest of the lights and settled next him. He mumbled under his breath that he loved her and she uncharacteristically spooned behind him, grabbing his belly while he slept.

TBC

A/N: Shras is the name of the delegate from Journey to Babel (TOS) who represents Andoria. I thought it was fitting we should see him again later, especially as an older man.


	35. Chapter 35

A/N: Sorry, all! This chapter is really for the shippers out there! This is a pure A/T'P lovefest. I'll continue with other plots, but this really had to be discussed.

Also, sorry it took so long to release. I had decided against just releasing this (which I've changed by mind about) and then a bunch of real life caught up with me.

----

When Archer woke up, there was a sigh building deep within his lungs, and he blew it out long and slow; it was one of the sweetest sleeps he'd ever had – even better than the one induced by Phlox when they were traveling in the Expanse. A hand gripped his belly suddenly, one that seemed to be owned by someone having an interesting dream and his lips sloped up.

T'Pol.

The bond between them helped him know the kind of dream, just as it helped him know she had been having more since their link emerged. Turning toward her slowly, as not to wake her, he smiled broader. In her mind, she was envisioning being chased by a sehlat, much like they were on Vulcan while they were in the desert, but this particular animal seemed like a family pet because when it caught her, he managed to push her over without going for the kill. Instead, the animal breathed in her face, grunting in something that reminded T'Pol – even as a child – as a chuckle.

The pet's name was Ausachya Rink'k'n, or quite logically in human named "Furball." When the name came to his lips, he nearly chuckled – it was a name a child would give and it made sense that T'Pol had shortened it to Ausachya. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on her dream and saw it unfold before him.

A girl around seven (at least in human years) with long hair bounded down a hall, hair that her mother should've cut months ago flapping in the breeze, as a bear-like creature followed with his tongue ridiculously sticking out. As she turned around to see if her animal was behind her, the creature tackled her again and she finally let loose a laugh.

"You smell," she told her pet.

It caused her mother to peek her head out the door.

"Are you teasing your sehlat again?" asked T'Les.

"Of course not, mother," she said. "He enjoys running with me."

"You cannot meld, thus you would not be able to establish whether your quadruped enjoys it."

The sehlat heaved a grunt. And as soon as her mother was gone, T'Pol wrapped her arms around the creature's old neck and hugged it, almost like a human child would, burying her face into the animal's mangy fur. After she released the animal, he yawned – displaying a mouth missing two fangs.

"_I wonder if it was de-fanged," thought Archer._

"_That would be cruel. He was old when he came to us, already missing most of his teeth."  
_

"Sorry to wake you," he said. "Your dream seemed pleasant."

Her eyes opened slowly. "I have been having more of them."

"Perhaps it's because we share thoughts?" he asked.

"Perhaps. I find dreaming unsettling. I should meditate more often."

"You haven't had the chance in the past few days."

"I have not." Something twinkled in her eyes and she ran her fingers along his cheek. "You fell asleep last night."

His grin turned sheepish. "Sorry about that."

"You were up for more than forty hours without rest, and your body has not fully recovered. It was to be expected," she whispered.

She darted her fingers along his temple, and he nearly purred under them.

He said, "I'm not asleep now."

"No, you're not."

They kissed and Archer's heart fluttered. Lips met and what started out as loving and tender embraces turned into mouths devouring; tongues dove against each other and fingers combed through each other's hair.

Curling his lips he reveled in dragging his tongue along her skin and practically sang hymnals at the feel of her teeth nipping his earlobes, throat and chest. Skimming his hands along her body felt almost as normal and easy as breathing – as if it was pure instinct.

And yet, his eyes delighted in the sights that washed over him – copper flesh, olive eyes and hair that rested on her shoulders. A sigh came to his lips as he noticed she'd gained a smidgen of weight – her belly flat, but not as concave as he'd known it to be. He liked it – all of it – the tiny bit of extra weight, the longer hair ….

He could tell she was about to argue over her weight, when he shook his head.

"You look beautiful," he said.

He crawled up her body and then covered it with his weight before pressing his mouth to hers again. This time she spread his lips open with her tongue and teased it into her mouth.

_Yes. _

The sunshine streamed in, her skin glowing under its attention until he could see small amber flecks in her eyes.

Everything was perfect and everything was right. It was much more than their bond that made him feel so, although he supposed that had something to do with it. This feeling, the one that prompted his heart to beat wildly in his was chest was more than just a ten-year friendship, marked with self-sacrifice and caring. Kissing her juicy lips, saving them with his mouth, he recognized the emotion was definitely greater than lust.

Deep. Overwhelming. The words came to his mouth, nearly spilling out, when she silenced him with her tongue, darting it between his parted lips. The tenderness turned wanton again.

So, he showed her how he felt about her physically – the sun shining on their bodies – unfettered by San Francisco clouds or fog. It was everything he'd wanted, everything he'd been waiting for those three months, nearly four – awe inspiring, playful, caring, passionate and long. Satisfying in mind, body and soul.

When at last they finally broke apart, relaxed, he laughed and nuzzled his nose against hers. His hand caressed the side of her hair, gently raking his fingers through her damp locks.

"God, I've missed you," he said.

"I have felt your absence as well."

He whispered, "Do I have you all to myself today?"

"Today, yes. Tomorrow Ki'ar leaves for his home world to talk with the Ithanite leaders." Two fingers formed and he met them quickly. "And do I have you all to _myself _today?"

"You do."

"What do you want to do?" she asked.

"Maybe take a shower first," he said. "Interested?"

He watched her think about it for a moment before answering. "It's inefficient."

His smile widened, mostly because he knew she was teasing him. "Definitely inefficient."

An eyebrow peaked and she slipped out of bed and headed into the bathroom. Lecherously, he watched with admiration as she slunk in. It caused him to remember the last day before he left.

_As he sighed – awake in the early morning, gazing at her, she turned toward him. It nearly startled him._

"_Good morning," she said. _

"_Hi," he said. "Sleep okay?"_

"_Yes, you?"_

"_Like a rock. Porthos didn't bother you did he?"_

"_No." She nuzzled her face into her pillow and then pushed up. "Would you like me to make you some tea?" _

"_No," he said. She was about to leave her bed when his hand curled around her arm. "I was hoping …." _

_Her eyes batted as if waiting. _

_He said, "I love you."_

_Their fingers formed in the Vulcan kiss. Separating them after a few moments, he brought his hand to her neck to trace the skin there._

_He whispered, "When I come back … if you're not seeing anyone …."_

"_Jonathan, we discussed this last night--" _

_They had; she didn't believe she'd see anyone else, but thought it was best to leave things nebulous. In a way he'd felt better about that – though he didn't want her to wait for his return (if he did), it would hurt to hear her sever things. _

"_I know." He said, "I'm just hoping we can pick up where we left off."_

"_Vulcans take relationships very seriously." _

"_Are you concerned I don't?" _

"_No. A relationship such as ours does not exist on Vulcan, unless it is the time of Pon Farr."_

"_Such as _ours_? What does that mean?" he asked. His heart rate picked up as he considered for the first time in almost three weeks that to her, he was merely a friend with certain … benefits. _

"_I have nothing to define what we are, no words exist on my planet. And yet, you should know I call on you as more than just a man to satisfy my sexual gratification." She seemed to hesitate before continuing. "Vulcans do not need sexual gratification unless it is our mating time."_

_It caused him to shift, nervously. "And what if we had a bond?"_

"_It is unlikely--"_

"_Just, what if a bond did form?"_

"_We would be telsu. Bond mates."_

"_And what would happen then?"_

"_If it happens, which seems unlikely, we would discuss it." He opened his mouth to respond and she placed her fingertips over his lips. "Our relationship does not define us, and just because we have no words to share what we are now – I believe you know the depth of feeling I have for you. I have shared that with you in our mind melds."_

_She had, and although she didn't call it such – he believed she loved him, too. _

"_All right," he whispered. _

"_Now, would you like some tea?" she asked._

_A smile spread across his lips. "I'll just watch you get up and make some."_

_A furrow crept across her brows and she almost immediately felt for the robe at the end of her bed. And yet, rather than put it on, she looked behind her and removed her hand from her robe. _

"_Very well," she said. And she padded off to make her morning chamomile despite her nudity. _

_Salaciously, he grinned._

As he pushed himself now out of bed to follow her into the shower, he wondered exactly what kind of conversation they would have about their relationship. Through the bond, he knew the two of them were both spinning their wheels on that notion.

---

As Jonathan would say, they had a lot to catch up on. T'Pol made breakfast – it was a Vulcan dish with the human food tofu, a protein that would meet Jonathan's dietary needs _and _her own. Setting it before him, she began telling him everything he'd missed during his three month and two week absence and he nodded through most of it indicating he'd heard it from Shran although the Andorian's version was a little different –– more "colorful" and "biased."

When she was through updating him, as if giving him a report as she would've on Enterprise, he peppered her with questions. Not surprisingly, they were about Ki'ar and Skon; the ones about Ki'ar clarified whether he'd join the Council, and the ones about Skon seemed mostly personal.

He was jealous.

Edging the conversation toward him and his travels, he gave her an update on everything he'd undergone – battles, arguments that cropped up among Vulcans, Andorians and Tellarites, the time alone in his cabin thinking about her and attempting to crash a ship into the planet. By the tone of his voice, she noticed it was an odd mixture of excitement and dismay at the events.

He'd left out a moment when Captain Vega attempted to kiss him, and she felt it would be hypocritical to bring it to his attention even though it unsettled her. Besides, she reasoned, his interests did not lie in that direction.

Afterward, they sat on the couch – their fingers mingling with each other's, enjoying the silence. It was then Jonathan finally brought up the bond, too impatient to let the conversation go any longer.

He said, "When I left, you said you wanted to keep our relationship nebulous."

"I did," she agreed. She watched a frown nearly make its way to his face and felt thoughts of doubt begin to cloud his mind; it was illogical of him, but endearing. "However, I believe those circumstances have changed."

Elation twinkled in his eyes. "I was hoping you'd feel that way. So what's the next logical step?"

"Unknown." Closing her eyes, she thought of the bond ceremony a priest had performed on her and Koss when they were seven – children; it was a tether to bring them back to Vulcan to satisfy the others' Pon Farr. After it was soothed, they would marry.

"Marry?"

Straightening a little, she shook her head. "I do not believe we are ready for that step."

"T'Pol--"

"As you indicated there is much we don't yet know about the other."

"You told me we chose each other."

"We have, and yet …." A flood of thoughts overwhelmed her mind and she plopped down her mug to shield his concerns. "Jonathan, your point of missing a courtship is valid. Although we have been friends for more than ten years, there are things to discuss and discover about the other." She could sense he was about to tell her she was confusing when she said, "Trip and I had a bond, and I did not marry him."

He said, "In case you haven't noticed, I'm not Trip."

"I _have _noticed." Flattening her lips she offered two fingers, which he hesitantly took. "I meant, that marrying is not a foregone conclusion."

"I thought the bond we had was deeper than yours with him," he said.

"It is."

"Then?"

The emotions emitting from Jonathan were strange; he wasn't hell-bent on marrying her, and yet hearing she wasn't interested in that step unnerved him as if she had slapped his ego.

A sigh left her lips. "Margaret Mullin?"

"What about her?"

"You once told me you asked her to marry you, and that she declined."

"Yes?"

"You are not asking me to marry you now, and I am not declining." He was about to speak, when she pressed her fingers over his lips to stop him. "I am in no rush to push our relationship into marriage, and yet you are more to me than a … boyfriend. Let's allow this relationship to continue and grow. Flourish."

She could tell the words forming on his lips, so she interrupted him again. She said, "You are impetuous and impatient."

"I thought you liked those things about me." A teasing smile rested on his face.

"I do. But, perhaps taking things slowly will allow what we have to blossom further."

"Then maybe we should we move in together?"

An eyebrow lifted of its own volition.

He said, "You could bring your meditation mat here or even use one of the spare bedrooms and --"

"I have grown accustomed to my abode."

"Then perhaps I can move in with you." He paused, only for a second. "If that's okay with you."

Instead of showing him her fingers to initiate a Vulcan kiss, she reached out to cup his face and brought him in for a long embrace. It didn't involve their tongues, but it was tender.

"I would like that," she said.

He smiled. "Me, too."

"Of course there will always be a place for Porthos in my home."

"I already knew that."

There was something else in his mind, a joke, which she addressed.

"No, we cannot move to a different floor from Skon. You would like him if you got to know him."

"I suppose now it will be impossible not to."

"You asked me to keep an open mind about Shran. I am requesting the same open-mindedness."

The smile faded, and yet his eyes danced in the light. "All right."

Whispering to each other, they nuzzled noses, gave each other Vulcan and human kisses and did something Jonathan referred to as playing footsie while they discussed the timing of his move, how to use mental shields more effectively and when to visit Mandarin Cove for dinner.

All in all, T'Pol felt this relationship was comfortable. The bond was unobtrusive for the most part, and his thoughts melded with hers like the touch of their lips. During the day-long conversation, she watched him – his regal features, his strength and his caring. In a way, it made her wonder why it had taken her so long to accept his advances; if she had known that he would satisfy her katra so readily, she would've embarked in a relationship with him much sooner. Years ago even.

There were many times she thought she felt something more for him – when he sacrificed his life, plummeting toward Azati Prime to destroy the weapon, when she'd heard about his death after blowing up the Xindi weapon, when she saw him wracked with pain after forced melds on her home world, when she attempted to use logic to ask him not to fight Shran, when they'd talked late into the night and times like those when he'd risked his life to oust Stan, the member of Terra Prime ….

Silently watching, behind the privacy of her mental shield, she promised Jonathan they would marry. She couldn't imagine sharing thoughts with another man, thrilling to be in another's arms or awed in another's presence. Although they would take things slowly, T'Pol drew a foregone conclusion that she would marry the man who sat next to her now.

A twinkle formed in his eye, oblivious of her private thoughts.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"I am thinking about us, ashaya."

"What about us?"

"Katra-katelau."

"Soulmates?"

Her hand formed the Vulcan kiss and he met it.

"Yes, beloved," she whispered.

A gentle smile crossed his lips. The two took their eyes to the setting sun and then left the intimacy and sanctity of his home to head out into the night for dinner at Mandarin Cove where they would embark on old habits and routines. As they walked, they held hands.

TBC


	36. Chapter 36

A/N: Back to our regularly scheduled story! More of Shran, more of Gral, more of Skon, more of Tares and the same amount of Archer and T'Pol. :)

----

The next day, Archer woke up more sore than usual – his muscles stretched. Still weak from his near-death experience and surgery, not to mention the "christening" they'd given T'Pol's bedroom, his shoulders ached as he lifted his head at the door's chime.

Glancing over at the clock, he frowned.

"Seven in the morning," he said to himself. His hand reached next to him and noticed the spot next to him was bare. The frown he wore cascaded across his face.

Tossing on a pair of pants and nothing else, he walked into the living room to ask T'Pol who had the lack of decency to rouse them so early, until he realized standing in the middle of the room was the culprit: Skon.

"I apologize for waking you, Admiral."

Jon exhaled sharply, shooting his gaze to his bond mate.

T'Pol said, "As you know, Ki'ar leaves this morning and Skon believed it would be appropriate to wish him goodbye – in Ithanite fashion."

"What's the custom?" asked Archer, making his way to the coffee pot. Looking down at his bare chest, he suddenly felt underdressed.

Skon said, "I believe you would use the term: bar hopping."

It made Archer halt in his tracks. "Bar hopping?"

"Did I use the term incorrectly?" asked Skon.

"I'm not sure," said Jon.

T'Pol explained, "Jonathan, Ithanites are hedonists who value entertainment greatly. It honors them to show them an … enjoyable time."

"Are there any bars even open now?" asked Jon.

"Apparently," said Skon.

Jon raised his eyebrows and watched as T'Pol excused herself to tidy up, leaving the two men alone. She also ignored his silent pleas to come back and rescue him from a conversation with Skon.

Jon sighed, "Well, it's just us. Want some coffee?"

"No, thank you."

After pouring a bit for himself he walked back over, eying the young Vulcan. Although Archer never considered himself an authority on male looks, believing on good days his own appearance wasn't too shabby, he wondered if back home Skon was considered a hot commodity. The most striking feature of this man was his eyes – not brown, as he'd seen with most Vulcans – but light blue almost bordering on gray. It wasn't his appearance that bothered Jon most or caused him to cringe with jealousy; it was his age, much closer to T'Pol's, and the open-mindedness of this one. Also bugging him was the way Skon looked at his bond mate; she made a twinkle form in his eyes.

"So, where have you been in San Francisco during your stay?" asked Archer, irked that he was the one who had to do the small talk.

"Many places. The council meeting room, my apartment, the apartment of T'Pol, the parking structure of this building, Mandarin Cove--"

"I was kinda looking for the highlights."

"I see – those most noteworthy?"

"Yes."

"I have been to the art museum, the wharf, Nob Hill, the Castro area for artwork and the Mission district."

"Any favorites?"

"I found the art museum quite satisfactory."

Jon's eyes went to the bedroom, hoping T'Pol would join them quickly; when she didn't readily appear he heaved a sigh and turned back to Skon.

He said, "I'm a fan of Chagall. Did you like any artists?"

"Many of the early painters, like da Vinci, are quite competent." Skon paused. "T'Pol explained the techniques your historians believe were used for such accurate drawings – reflecting images on a canvas."

"There's controversy about that. We're not really sure they used that method."

"I find it difficult to believe anyone could paint such a precise picture without it."

"I'd like to think it's just skill. Men like da Vinci did many things ahead of their time with extraordinary precision and skill."

Skon's eyes fled to the door and the two men waited for almost a minute, before Archer picked up again.

He said, "Earth seems to be agreeing with you."

"I find your planet … fascinating. I have never seen or experienced such an abundance of water."

"We have deserts as well."

"I have read that. T'Pol and I, before you arrived on Earth, had discussed hiking in one of them."

"Oh?"

"It was her suggestion."

"Was it?" he asked. Ignoring the tiny voice in his head he recognized as T'Pol, warning him to veer off the conversation, he continued. "Which desert?"

"In the Sedona region – Arizona."

"Sounds nice. Sorry I interrupted your plans."

"It is of no consequence. We can revive those plans when you join the front again, assuming you are." The Vulcan took only a small breath before adding, "I have read that the United Forces have not fared well during this conflict. I would think an experienced admiral as yourself would be beneficial to our fleet."

"I've been grounded until the doctor gives me a clean bill of health."

"Has your physician given any indication of how long it will take you to recover?"

"Not yet."

"I hope for your speedy recovery, Admiral."

Archer's eyes squinted and an ironic huff came from his lips. "I'm sure you do."

Skon raised a single eyebrow – a mannerism Jon was beginning to dislike. This one had a touch of innocence, and Archer was determined to call him on their tête-à-tête … despite the voice of T'Pol growing louder, alerting him to discontinue. Archer's voice deepened, rumbling in his throat.

"You know, Skon, let's be honest. I know that you --"

The door opened, ending the discussion and T'Pol shot Archer what he knew was a glare, despite her stoic appearance. And he knew he deserved it; he was on the verge of telling her aide that he should spend less time with her and that he should get a hobby or two. As his lips parted to explain himself, she shook her head and strolled toward Skon.

"Are you ready?" she asked the Vulcan.

"Of course." Skon paused only for a moment before looking at Archer. "Admiral, perhaps we can continue our conversation later?"

"I don't think it's necessary," said T'Pol.

With that, the two walked out and Archer scratched his chest near the shoulder knowing he and T'Pol would have a conversation about that later.

---

After taking a shower, donning some casual clothes and brushing his teeth, Jon hurriedly splashed some coffee into a cup on the way to Starfleet. The first meeting was with Gardner regarding his mission and the war in general. There were rumors about the war's failure and even political pressure to bring it to a close quickly so that no more lives would be spent. Archer had no love for politics or people that didn't realize if Earth didn't defend itself, many more lives would be lost.

As he drove the shuttlecar into the parking garage, he passed the burned out structure that was the Council hall. Apparently Starfleet, or Section 31, he couldn't tell which, were still involved in trying to decipher exactly what happened. A frown came to his face as he remembered thinking T'Pol had perished. He bowed his head at the memory of those who'd perished during the event.

Heading down one blue-carpeted hallway to another, he eventually made it to the center of the Starfleet building. The office was alive with activity – young officers and assistants scrambling, running information from one office to another - and Gardner marched out of his office right away to greet Archer, clasping hands, before hustling him in and shutting the door.

Matt was grayer than almost four months ago, with lines spreading around his features like cracks in a windshield. The man's eyes were surrounded by purple, and he looked tired as if he hadn't slept well in days.

Rather than chitchat, Matt got right to the point. Sitting at his desk, plopping himself into it, he focused his eyes on Archer like a laser.

"The war isn't going well," said Gardner. "We've been losing almost a ship a day since this thing began." With a little anger, the admiral smashed his fist onto his desk. "Hell, we don't even know what the Romulans want!"

"Seems like they're content with destroying us."

"And then some. These Romulans are cold and calculating son of a bitches, Jon. They know where we are in nearly ever battle – coming out of nowhere and nearly always have us outnumbered. They've even started targeting civilian ships."

"T'Pol thinks the Ithanites are close to signing a treaty with us. That should help."

"She's kept me informed. God, we need all the help we can get." He sighed. "And I need you out there as soon as possible. When are you clear to return?"

"I don't know. I meet with Starfleet Medical after this," said Archer.

Gardner nodded, grimacing as he did so. "Well, there's some good news in all this. You were able to complete your mission. Although, only ten of the men and women recovered actually survived and no one remembers much of what happened other than Stiles … and I question his faculties."

"What did Stiles say?"

"The Vulcans were holding them and torturing them."

Jon thought back to T'Pol's secret, one she only recently shared, that the Vulcans and Romulans had the same heritage. She didn't know, and he supposed no one did, whether the Romulans actually looked like the Vulcans or whether they had disguised themselves.

Archer said, "They may have factions who disagree with Kir'Shara, just as Terra Prime doesn't necessarily agree with Prime Minister Pelletier."

"I suppose," said Matt. "But, I've never known a Vulcan to torture a man."

"Me neither." Shifting the conversation to more pleasant thoughts, Archer asked a question that he'd been wondering ever since the crew of the Endeavor, diplomats and aides were freed. He'd been told precious little about it. "Who was rescued?"

"T'Pol's aide - Staron, Ambassador Bagdol, Ambassador Neville Simon, Commander Stiles, Lieutenant Hoyt, Crewmen Little, Gral's aide – Guf, the Xindi ambassador's aide – Varl, Crewman Sanders and Ensign Washington."

Archer asked, "How are they?"

"I'll be honest, it'll take months for them to recover. It seems like a miracle they survived at all."

"When will you let the Council know you have these people?"

"We've already notified everyone's government. The Xindi want to send a ship to pick up their aide. Ambassador Bagdol's government is investigating into this matter."

Matt grabbed the coffee cup on his desk and put it to his lips for a deep drink and then continued. "Jon, I wanted to discuss something personal, something that affects your role at Starfleet."

This is what Archer was afraid of. "Yes?"

"Ambassador T'Pol indicated you have a … bond with her." He paused. "We've checked into a few things, and from what I can tell, it's more than just friendship. Do you two have a romantic relationship?"

Archer thought about evading the question, but decided to answer it outright. "We do."

"T'Pol described this bond as being able to exchange thoughts easily. Is that right?"

"Yes."

"That's what I thought." Matt put his cup on his desk and stared at it. "Prime Minister Pelletier and I need to lower your security clearance."

"What?"

"You know I trust T'Pol. She's been an excellent officer, a friend and quite an admirable ambassador. However, she represents Vulcan now."

"Vulcan is our ally."

Matt agreed, "Yes, but … even allies have secrets from each other. And as an admiral with your clearance, you have been asked to a keep a few."

"T'Pol was already aware of Section 31."

"I'm not talking about that. I'm talking about future secrets." The man frowned and then looked at his desk. "We need you, but I'm going to have to lower your clearance."

"Lower it to …?"

"Fleet captain." Just as Archer was about to shoot out of his seat, Matt continued. "We've decided not to reduce your rank. So far you've done nothing wrong."

"How am I supposed to lead a fleet if I don't have the clearance?"

"We'll just have to assign you a mission where that won't be an issue." Matt shook his head. "Don't give me that look, Jon, you knew there would be trade offs. And I think you knew starting a relationship with an ambassador from Vulcan would bring some problems and repercussions."

"I didn't start a relationship with her until the bombing of the Council building."

"I believe you. But, we're back to the issue of having the Vulcans think you're in their back pocket."

"You know that's not true."

Matt frowned. "I asked Captain Vega to tell me why you didn't go to the Vulcans on the planet for help."

"The ones that tortured crewmen, diplomats and aides?"

"It sounded like you didn't know that, especially at the time." He paused. "Vega was quick to defend you, but I managed to weasel that out of her."

"It turned out to be the right decision," said Archer.

"How did you know?"

Archer was silent.

Matt said, "This is part of the reason your clearance is lowered."

"For acting -- correctly, I might add -- on instinct?"

"Don't pull that with me. I think you got information from T'Pol, and the reason you're clearance is pulled is because you aren't willing to share that information with us."

"Sir, I thought I made it clear that--"

"There may come a time you'll have to decide your loyalties. Pelletier and I are hoping it's with Starfleet."

That caused him to push himself out of the chair, holding onto the armchair for balance. "I have never disobeyed an order. I was successful in the mission, recovering survivors from the--"

"No one is questioning that."

"I'm not finished! I didn't realize ordering Captain Vega to do the right thing would create suspicion about my … loyalties." Archer watched Matt stand as well.

"Watch it, Admiral."

"Am I done here?

"Yeah. Dismissed, Admiral," said Matt. Before Archer could turn around and throw open the door, he heard behind him. "Let me know what Starfleet Medical says. We need you back there."

_Yeah, right. _As Archer made his way, fuming, to Starfleet Medical, he heard the familiar buzz in his head that he knew was T'Pol.

_She thought, "You know he's right. You _did _ascertain that information from me."_

And then information came to the forefront that he hadn't expected. T'Pau also had a similar conversation with T'Pol months ago, reducing her clearance and indicating a relationship with a human admiral was ill advised. Unlike him though, she took the information with grace, agreeing to the small censure and continued on without letting it affect her ego.

"I suppose it is my pride that smarts," he said. "I don't think he understands what information you and I learn, we keep between ourselves." 

"_Humans are unfamiliar with what a bond means, and even the Vulcans are wary. They don't know what to expect from a human-Vulcan bond." _

_He sighed. "Sorry."_

"_We can discuss this further tonight."_

Thinking about their conversation and the implications of being involved with a Vulcan ambassador, on his way to living with one, he headed to Starfleet Medical for his check-up, hoping that he would need a while to recover.

---

T'Pol waited at "Voila," a bar at the end of pier 21, holding a weak drink as Skon watched the clientele, searching for the others to show up. They were already an hour late, and both the Vulcans were wondering if they were going to show. While Skon suggested perhaps they were detained, T'Pol knew there was another explanation, one that fit the hedonistic Ithanite's lifestyle – that they'd mostly likely gone to another bar first. As she sipped her cocktail, something called a gimlet that tasted too sweetly of lime, she noticed a woman and three men lumber in one carrying a baby at his chest in something that resembled a harness.

It was Shran – with his child Shras in tow, Gral, Tares and the Ithanite. And although none of them looked intoxicated, T'Pol surmised they'd been what Jonathan might say, "up to no good." Skon left his stool and nodded toward the baby.

"Should you bring your child into a bar?" asked Skon.

"He's not drinking anything except what's in here." He took a bottle from his hip and held it in the air. "Don't worry, it has Jhamel's milk inside."

T'Pol watched Skon about to explain that his point was more about decency and youth of the babe than intoxication when Gral interrupted.

"I apologize for being late. Ki'ar wanted to see what a strip club was like, and we didn't feel it would be right to make Skinny go."

"Strip club?" asked Skon.

Ki'ar smiled and removed his fez, holding it over his chest with reverence, displaying thinning hair on top. "Naked women."

Skon's eyebrow shot up. "Pardon?"

Shran waved his hand, correcting the Ithanite. "They don't start out nude." A smile slid onto his face. "They start off moderately clothed and then work their clothes off as they dance, tauntingly until they are bare."

Gral gave a mild chuckle until T'Pol's eyes caught his, and then his grunt ended abruptly.

"And you took your child to that as well?" asked Skon.

"Of course. There's nothing shameful about the female form." His antennae wiggled. "I might ask Jhamel to see if they provide lessons – it would make mating more--"

T'Pol coughed. "If you are through discussing your adventures this morning, perhaps we can resume our discussion about the treaty."

Shran continued, "— interesting, if you know what I mean. I especially like what the humans call a dancing lap."

Gral shook his head. "No, I think it's called a lip dance."

"Maybe you're right. I think the only thing that establishment could use would be some Orion and Andorian women. They dance like demons, and if they were like Andorian females in the clubs on my homeworld --"

"Can we discuss the treaty?" asked T'Pol.

Tares said, "Yes, if the females were like those in T'kak for example, humans would be as prolific as Andorians. Lip dancing would probably cost more."

"I heard of an orgy in the T'kak that would make your antennae stiffen." Shran smiled and shook his head. "But, I think the humans have something by only letting the women go nude. It's more innocent, adding to the tease. And the one thing I've never liked about the T'kak is the sweating thaan."

"I like sweaty thaan," said Tares. "Although, I do like how they taunted the audience, peeling off one garment at a time."

Ki'ar smiled. "Like it!"

"Orion women would definitely make the performance more enjoyable," said Gral. "I saw one – her raven hair flying, hips pulsing and green, curvy flesh writhing in delight. That was quite a sight to behold." A lecherous snort exploded from his lips and when T'Pol turned her head toward him, he stopped again.

"The purpose of going to a … strip club … is to become titillated?" asked Skon.

"Yes, and it does the job. It gets the blood pumping and reminds you that you are a male," said Shran.

Gral agreed. "It's a feast for the eyes, Vulcan. It's like artwork."

"Gave me some ideas," said Tares.

Skon said, "Fascinating."

Ki'ar said, "Like it!"

T'Pol stuffed her arms across her chest as Shran described what one of the dancer's, Candy, was doing – as if to prove the art form – when finally the Vulcan had had enough. Putting down her drink, loud enough to end the conversation, she said her peace.

"I would like to change the subject," she said.

"Why?" asked Shran.

Gral nodded, answering for her. "Sorry, Skinny. We were only trying to help Skon understand and perhaps we got carried away. Although if you'd like to argue about the benefits of strip clubs--?"

"No, thank you," she said.

Shran said, "T'Pol isn't a prude, she mates with Archer even outside of whatever that ten-year cycle thing is called."

Tares agreed, "I would think she's mated with him multiple times. Humans are apparently like Andorians – insatiable, and I can imagine Archer has a rather large appetite."

T'Pol couldn't help but drop her jaw – it wasn't out of anger, but shock the Andorian would mention it so casually. Vulcans rarely spoke of sex, especially in public; her own sex life, she would think, was entirely off limits.

"Oh, what Skinny does – or how many times - is not our concern." Gral stroked his beard. "But, I would think you're right, Tares. He seems like a man who enjoys mating."

"Which one? The hairy one?" asked Ki'ar.

Shran said, "Yeah, I'm hoping something comes of it – Shras could use a playmate his own age."

Skon spoke up. "These are private matters between the admiral and ambassador. Now, perhaps we should order our beverages and discuss the treaty."

"Whatever you say, Skip," said Shran.

A headache was beginning to form behind T'Pol's eyes, and she rubbed her temple with relief that finally the lewd conversation managed to shift to what they had convened for – discussion of the council, the war and treaties. Ki'ar had thankfully promised to keep his word, asking his leaders to join the conflict in exchange for very little – some technology and food. His main concern was opening trading between his people and the Vulcans and Andorians.

T'Pol knew that a human would call this arrangement a "win-win."

Before they left to take Ki'ar to the shuttle, Shran held his glass aloft.

"To Ki'ar. He has been excellent company and brought life to our Council."

Ki'ar said, "Enjoyed it."

After finishing their one and only drink, they took him to his shuttle where he gave something that seemed like a hug to T'Pol. With nearly a tear in his eye, he waddled into the shuttle and turned around once to give a salute. The shuttle left, zooming off into the distance and Shran was the first to speak.

"I'll miss that little guy."

"Me, too," said Gral.

"When do we expect to hear from him?" asked Skon.

Gral said, "It takes his shuttle roughly a solar week to arrive on his home planet. I presume we'll hear something shortly afterward."

"I wish it were sooner," said Shran. "Andorian reports have not been favorable."

"Vulcan has indicated the war is not going well," said T'Pol.

Shran sighed. "The gentleman from Coridan that Tares spoke to. _He _seems interested."

"He is." Tares said, "He's already on his way here. He contacted me last night."

"Good," said T'Pol.

"I doubt he'll be as entertaining as Ki'ar," said Gral. There was a hint of sadness in his voice.

Shras kicked and Shran whipped into action, putting a bottle in front of him. The boy sucked on it, his tiny antennae whirling.

Smirking, Shran said, "I don't like the human bottle used to feed him. My child is suckling on rubber! I wish I'd remembered to take the glarok skins when we were on Andoria."

Tares said, "I offered to give your child my milk. It wouldn't take long to produce some – maybe less than an hour."

Shran sighed. "No," he said. "Jhamel is picky about how our children are raised. It's why she used the ridiculous human device to fill this bottle." Shrugging, he added, "She would only let the avat help, and we weren't sure whether T'Pol could lactate as quickly as an Andorian or Aenar."

T'Pol's eyes narrowed. "No."

"That's all right. We'll muddle through," said Shran. As the blue man watched his child, his grin grew longer. T'Pol recognized the grin: pride in his son.

"Why did you not leave your child at home?" asked Skon.

"I'm the father."

The Vulcan was about to question further, when T'Pol reached her hand on his arm as if to let him know the query wasn't worthwhile. After piling into the shuttlecar, they headed to the meeting room to strategize about the visit from the Coridan. It was interrupted only twice by Shran providing new garments for his child, changing him with precision in front of the room. T'Pol watched on, father and son, and felt what was a pang.

_Children._

TBC


	37. Chapter 37

A/N: Sorry it's been so long. For some reason, I had a hard time getting through this chapter as well as real life kinda carried me away for a bit. I know I promised last chapter that updates would come more regularly. They will.

This chapter has a bit of everything, including important information about the Romulan war.

Thanks to Mana, my beta!

----

Archer waited in a gown open at the back, seated on a cold bio-bed, glad that he could at least leave his socks on – the temperate in the room made the hair on his arms stand up and his teeth chatter. Starfleet Medical. The walls were pristine white and all the equipment on the other side of the room were gleaming silver, sterilized more than once to obliterate any infection. The lights flickered, their luminescence muddled in a hot white light, and buzzed as if a bulb required changing.

Tapping his fingers, Jon sighed looking across the room at a clock, noting that he'd been in there for nearly an hour while nearly naked reading PADDs of news stories about which actors and actresses were together and which weren't (a topic that didn't interest him in the slightest) to bide the time.

Just as he was about to walk out the door to collect someone, deciding mooning whoever he passed would be preferable to staying in the room another second, the door opened. His jaw dropped; it was the redhead he'd met before getting into a relationship with T'Pol, a woman that was Jhamel's friend – Miranda. It was the woman who had a daughter in the same school as Tallah. Radiant, her smile beamed whiter than the sanitary conditions that surrounded him.

"I didn't expect to see you here," he said. Suddenly, he felt as underdressed as he was and crossed his legs, protecting what little dignity he had.

Miranda smiled and nodded to her PADD. "I expected to see you – Admiral Jonathan Archer. Sorry I'm late."

"It's all right." He scratched his head attempting to deliver polite conversation. "So, how have you been?"

"Better than you," she said. Taking a stylus from the front pocket of her coat, she scrolled through the information and frowned at it. "I notice you didn't bring a cane in here. Isn't that what the doctor aboard the Potomac recommended for the next month?"

"I felt well enough not to use it."

"I see," she said, disapprovingly. She took that down as a note.

As she continued to look over his records, he coughed. "Listen, I never called because I became involved with a woman I'd known before. Someone who's been in my life for about eleven years."

Taking a scanner from her pocket, she ran it over him and nodded. "I heard."

"Just didn't seem appropriate."

"Yeah. Are you urinating okay?"

"Yes." He paused and then added, "I mean, this woman that I'm involved with … I've been interested in her for some time."

"Okay. Any pain in your side or back?"

"No. At the time, I didn't think anything was possible between us …. I mean me and her."

"That's fine. Stomach pain?"

"Not really. So, it had nothing to do with you."

"Is that a no?"

"Yes, that's a no."

She jotted a few things down in her PADD and then looked at the scanner again.

He said, "I mean, you seem like a great woman, and … I feel badly about what happened."

Finally, the woman chuckled. "It's okay, really, Jon. My ex and I have reconciled, so everything turned out great."

"Well, that's good news."

"For the most part. I'm happy, and my daughter's happy. Unfortunately, I haven't been able to see much of him."

He was quiet as she continued to jot down a few things.

"He's in Starfleet." She said, "Maybe you know him. Jack Stiles."

"Commander Stiles? I know him." Not knowing her security clearance, he merely added how brave he was.

"Yeah." She sighed. "Sometimes I guess it takes disaster for everything to work out."

Nodding, he thought maybe that's how he and T'Pol were able to begin a relationship. Miranda sighed and put the stylus back into her pocket. Walking closer, she put her cold hand on his arm.

"I'll need to give your side and back a little poke. That all right?"

"Sure," he said.

Gingerly, she opened up his gown, causing the man to blush, and pressed on his side and back. Although he winced with embarrassment, nothing but his pride wounded him.

She asked, "That hurt?"

"No."

It caused her to grab the stylus and jot down a few more things before putting the stick back in her pocket.

"Want the good news first or the bad?" she asked.

"I'm an optimist, I'll take the good."

"Your urine specimen you gave the nurse is clear. The scan looks relatively normal – no complications from your surgeries." She paused. "The bad news is you really need to rest. Your immune system is weak; your white blood cell count is up. Also, you're slightly anemic. I'd like you to include iron in your diet more regularly: meat - like liver - beans or spinach."

"How long am I grounded?"

"I'd say probably another month or so, depending on whether you listen to me." Her eyes narrowed into slits, daring him to defy her. "I'd like to see you back in here in two weeks."

"Okay."

"Good." She smiled. "This time I won't make you wait around."

"That's okay, you're busy. I imagine you had a lot other patients to see."

"Not really."

He guffawed. "You wanted me to wait?"

"You didn't call me," she said, winking. "Go ahead and get dressed."

As soon as she left, he gathered his clothes and put them on eagerly, wondering if she'd lowered the temperature of the room to make him more uncomfortable. A mild laugh came to his lips, and he pondered the idea that everything _had_ turned out all right. He'd even have a couple of months with T'Pol rather than rushing back to the front.

----

T'Pol leaned over the stove when she heard the bell ring. It sounded like a formality, because she heard the door open right away and heavy footsteps, shuffling as if someone had injured themselves, ensue.

_Jonathan._

Turning, she saw a smile cross his face as he tossed his keys on the table, scuffing it, and kicked off his shoes in the middle of the kitchen, showing one sock tattered enough to display a hint of a hairy toe. Stretching, he looked out the window and rubbed his hand under his shirt at his lower back, scratching what she presumed was an itch and then turned around.

"You making dinner?" he asked.

"I am," she said. Her eyes inadvertently headed to the shoes that cluttered the floor and then the keys on the table, silently asking him to pick them up.

Instead, he came behind her and wrapped his arms around her, preventing her from reaching the pan she attended. Sniffing near her ear and over her shoulder, he gazed at the food below.

"There's a lot of orange. What is it?"

"A lentil dish – the doctor indicated you need iron."

He kissed her temple and as her hand reached out to the pan's handle, his grip tightened – drawing her closer to him and farther away from her pot – and he pressed his lips against her neck.

"Jonathan, the doctor also indicated you needed to rest."

She didn't have to turn around to see a smirk on his face, but he released her to grab a glass of water and sat down at the table. After only a few seconds of silence, he frowned, stuffing his keys in his pocket and slipping back on his shoes.

"Everything okay?" he asked. "You seem … agitated."

"I'm fine."

His eyebrows climbed and she sighed; it was no good to hide her emotions now that they were tethered together.

He said, "I can feel it through the bond. Annoyance."

"It was a difficult day."

Closing the gap between them, he spoke softly. "Ki'ar left today."

"He did."

"I don't think you're irritated about that though." Gently taking the spoon she'd been using to stir the mixture from her hand, he turned her to face him. "Want to tell me what the problem is?"

She could feel her eyes roam, eyeing the window, the ceiling and then the floor, and then felt him poking through the bond, urging her to share with him. Her eyes gazed into his – warm, tender like grass in a meadow.

"Shran and the others, excluding Skon of course, seemed intent on discussing … private matters."

"Like what?" Before she got the chance to verbally say it, he seemed to read her thoughts. "Oh."

What she didn't understand is rather than grimace or become angry, the man purred – a laugh teeming with amusement. As she knitted her brows at him, he strangled his snicker.

"Humans don't necessarily brag about sex, but …. I'm not embarrassed for them to know we're sleeping together. Human couples usually do." Pausing he finally said, "We _are_ living together."

"Vulcans can couple, even outside of Pon Farr, but they do not _discuss _it with anyone." She hesitated. "Pon Farr is _never _mentioned."

Through their connection, she saw images flash to his mind – ones brought to life from holding Surak's katra. Savagery, similar to those they had both witnessed at Starfleet's headquarters regarding the Vankara, a Vulcan ship lost in the Expanse. Depravity. Wilder than the fantasies he had while watching the Orion women dance, shimmying their scantily clad bodies as he heard maybe the most beautiful was interested in him.

Blinding. Chaos.

A pant left his lips and she tugged at the bond, stirring him from those visions as he shifted in his seat.

"Now you understand why we do not discuss our mating rituals," she said.

He licked his lips and then said, "You've brought up sex before – the first year you were on Enterprise. You told Trip and me that we needed our tensions eased," he said.

"I was hesitant to discuss it, but believed it was for the good of the crew. I knew that humans engaged in the act more frequently and believed you had not, thus decided to say something." Pausing only for a minute, she attempted to speak without sounding haughty, something she knew she failed as soon as the words spilled from her lips. "As I recall, _you _were embarrassed."

"It's not something you want your attractive, Vulcan, female first officer to mention. Besides, back then I didn't know you as well as I do now."

T'Pol knew that aliens perceived her people of being logical to a fault in all things, and assumed that was true of their mating rituals. Not only was that not the case, but the exact opposite was true. Vulcans lost all reason when the blood fever took them; Vulcan men especially were driven to insanity – destroying everything (even other Vulcans) in their path to mate – and women transformed into harlots, seducers – strutting wantonly for the male like a vixen to entice them to mate. Even the casual mating she'd engaged in held elements of illogic and Pon Farr, especially when she was addicted to trellium; she had seduced Trip, using pretense to bring him to her room with only a single robe, one she easily wiggled out of, to clothe her.

Archer squinted at her and she looked down at the pan.

"I've never believed our lovemaking was illogical, T'Pol," he said.

He slid back behind her and put his arms around her, holding her loosely around her waist and it comforted her.

"Vulcans have emotions like desire," he said. "And I don't think it's wrong for you to feel that way about your bondmate. I prefer it." He whispered into her ear. "Besides, we share secrets, the two of us, because of our bond. Only the two of us know what happens in our bedroom."

_Illogical._

He said, "I think I'm missing the issue."

And just as she was about to open her mouth, it seemed to strike him.

"You think you're some sort of Jezebel?" he asked. He punched a few buttons, turning off the burner, took her hand and led her to the table so they could talk.

"Vulcans mate outside of our cycle, but it is rare."

"So? Do you like it?"

"Liking it is beside the point."

He lifted her chin with his thumb, gazing into her eyes as if searching for an answer; and yet she had none to give.

She said, "It may be just the two of us who are aware, but _I _know, Jonathan. I understand that this … craving is not Vulcan. Not logical."

"All Vulcans have emotion."

"Mine spews from my pores."

He sighed, "Surak had similar thoughts about his wife."

Turning, she looked down. "He had those thoughts in Pon Farr."

"No. Not quite. He … felt desire even outside of it."

"Surak was able to control it."

"You're not Surak."

"That is obvious."

"You are who you are, ashaya," he said.

Catching his eye, she let her gaze travel along his build – refined. Even lanky as he was, his form pleased her as did his mind and his heart. The formation of their katra, the unification wasn't at jeopardy, it was the way he made her feel these days.

Out of control.

Wrapped up in his emotions, feeling as he did – pain, love, ecstasy – it started to become too much. A constant ebb and flow, thoughts washing over her, tingling her skin – causing the hairs on her arms to stand upright. No Vulcan had ever succumbed so readily to pure feeling, letting it overtake them and drown them so willingly; only the mentally insane fell under emotion's snare, tumbling them into bedlam. Chaos. Darkness.

"The problem is, Jonathan … I like the loss of control. I enjoy it ... And it is unVulcan to feel so."

An understanding smile spread across his face, a small one, and his hand reached out to hers. "What can we do about it?"

"I have been meditating more than once a day," she said. "Yet emotion bubbles inside me, yearning to spring free."

"Is it the trellium?" he asked, his voice suddenly hushed and quiet.

"Perhaps." Defeat and shame forced her to bow her head.

"I can meditate more as well." His hand cupped her cheek. "Maybe you can also resolve yourself that it pleases me to see you … excited. And I would never call you anything but Vulcan, T'Pol."

Her lips twitched unsure, when he spoke again, two fingers of his left hand stroked her neck – a comforting motion, not one fraught with desire.

He whispered, "Infinite Diversity in infinite combinations. The fact you are more or less emotional doesn't make you more or less Vulcan."

Although human, he understood the concept of the IDIC and she lowered her eyes in thought. A conversation with T'Pau before she arrived on Earth popped to mind – the minister seemed to also know that emotion was her strength.

"And the fact that you have _some _emotion – some that you allow me to see, T'Pol, makes you more suitable to me."

With that, he leaned across the table and kissed her, their lips gently touching. His hand cupped her cheek and she restrained a sigh.

"Would you like dinner now?" she asked, bringing the conversation to as much of a close as she could for tonight.

"Sure."

Leaving the table, she heard her bondmate collect a PADD and knew he began to read the latest news as she finished. The silence was comfortable, and never silent – he was always there, in her mind. Today, as she hovered over the pan, stirring it, she realized she'd relied on Jonathan Archer in a way she always had: his strength. Able to meet her logic and yet provide more information, the human actually did something she hadn't expected: he'd cheered her up.

_A human notion._

The thought stuck with her, musing in her mind. It wasn't allowed to stay there long, the doorbell rang and when Jonathan answered, she knew exactly who it was even before the guest entered.

Skon.

As she heard the two talk, ignoring the jabs that tainted nearly every remark the two made to each other, she thought about how Vulcan Skon was. The epitome of Vulcan. His mind seemed clear and unencumbered, his voice a placid sea of stars and his manners as smooth as the desert at noon. Peeking around the corner she looked at both men: human and Vulcan.

"Ambassador, I did not want to interrupt, but I have heard some interesting news from my sister," said her aide.

T'Pol waved him in. "Jonathan and I were about to have dinner. Would you like some?"

She heard her bondmate sigh heavily and protest loudly in her mind. Ignoring it, she watched Skon give a brief head nod, folding his hands behind his back as he strolled to the table.

"It smells like you are cooking svan-ta. I have not had that now in many months."

Pointing to the table, she ladled out servings for three and then set them on the table along with human-style spoons. Glasses of water were filled by Jonathan as well as a glass of wine for himself. Skon used that time to discuss Staron had awakened, living through his injuries, and had already spoken with T'Pau. Although it nearly made T'Pol crush the glass – that Staron would have such an extreme break in protocol – she set it gingerly down on the table, she restrained herself and waited for more information to be divulged.

"Why didn't he contact T'Pol?" asked Archer.

Skon nodded. "Yes, that is problematic. Ambassador, I did not wish to offend you by bringing this to you. My sister should have told you first and would have, had I not already contacted her. I contact my sibling once an Earth week."

"No offense is taken," said T'Pol. "Will he be returning to Vulcan?"

"That is unknown. He has expressed interest in staying."

"I had not expected that," she said.

"If he wishes to return to his duties, I am unsure whether my presence would be needed."

"Your presence, Skon, is most needed," said T'Pol. "My preference would be to have you continue."

"It would be mine as well," said Skon.

T'Pol didn't have to look at Jonathan to know he disagreed.

"I wish the others would awake, like Ambassador Simon," said Archer. _"Although I'm not sure Simon would be much help, it'd be good to know exactly what's going on."_

"Agreed," said Skon.

As the three talked about the Council, they began eating despite Vulcan practices. There was too much to discuss to wait until the meal was over, and her mate was anxious to ask about the details of whether Simon would be welcome in the Council when he awoke. It was a notion T'Pol hadn't considered.

During the dinner and after, she knew Archer wished they could have a chance to talk – discuss the censure he'd withstood and her own – rather than entertain Skon.

"_We have many opportunities," she thought to him. _

Finally, the evening lasting much longer than expected, Archer retired to bed alone as the Vulcans stayed awake and chatted about tactics to take with the Coridan ambassador; the race was not overly fond of Vulcans, seeing their intrusion as an occupation rather than just meddlesome.

At the end of the evening, in the wee hours, T'Pol finally said goodbye to her aide and meditated on her blue mat before retiring for bed. She was surprised when she put her head on the pillow that Jonathan awakened.

"You with Skon all this time?" he asked, his voice groggy with sleep.

"We had much to discuss," she said.

Shifting his weight, he turned to face her and she saw the mix of emotions crossing his face in the darkness. The hint of moonlight let her name those feelings: jealousy, confusion, mistrust, irritation and mild anger.

"It'd be easier to share thoughts with a Vulcan. You'd have less worry about showing emotion," he said.

With that, he turned again to face away from her and drifted back to an uneasy sleep. A hand almost reached his shoulder to tug him toward her when she heard a light snore rumble in his nose. The Vulcan embedded the information into the recesses of her brain and spooned against her companion, providing the smallest of kisses to the back of his neck and pondered addressing everything in such a way that there was finality for Jonathan.

And then she wondered if that could ever occur.

-----

Shran drummed his fingers on the table and noticed his child giggle at the motion. He had to admit it was a ridiculous human habit, one he supposed he'd picked up from being on Earth for nearly six months. As his child squirmed in his harness, one attached to Thy'lek's chest, the Andorian father waited for T'Pol and Skon to arrive.

Gral finally interrupted the silence. "It's not like Skinny to be late."

Tares agreed, "Let's face it, Vulcans are punctual if nothing else."

Gral said, "Maybe you should call her at her house once more."

Shran huffed and then pressed a few buttons in the console next to him. A figure formed onto his screen almost right away and the blue man grinned at it.

"Pink Skin!" said Shran. "Your Vulcan there?"

"You mean T'Pol?"

"Yes."

"No."

It took Shran a second to figure out Archer was without a shirt and the Andorian shook his head at the ape-like appearance as his friend, questioning silently how an Earth man could look so hairy.

"Is she in your mating bed now?" he asked.

The human sighed. "No, Shran. She left."

"Was she in your mating bed?"

An impish smile overcame his face, and he held back the urge to tease his friend about being tyla-tora with her, which he was sure was the reason for their tardiness. Disappointed, Shran frowned as Archer headed off that line of reasoning.

"I just got out of the shower. T'Pol left about an hour ago."

"Oh." Shran scratched an antenna. "Then she should've been here by now."

"She went out for breakfast with her aide first."

"Skip?"

"Skon."

"And you're okay with this?"

Archer sighed, "They work together."

"Good Grendal." Shran shook his head. "Pink Skin, I think you and I should have drinks alone tonight, without your mate."

"I think that's--"

"I'll ask Jhamel to watch Shras." When he saw the human shake his head, about to say something, Shran leaned into the monitor. "I have to discuss something with you anyway."

There was more to be said, but at that exact minute T'Pol and Skon strolled through the door and as if guilty, Shran immediately shut off after murmuring he'd be there at six p.m. The Vulcans seemed eager to determine exactly who he was speaking to and of what importance it was, but the blue man remained obstinate and began weaving tales of the Imperial Guard as if to shut them up. He took the opportunity to also needle them about being tardy, something he knew Vulcans never were. Although T'Pol was his friend, there was something satisfying about shutting up a Vulcan … extraordinarily so. And it did the trick, Skon piped down and T'Pol gave him the faintest hint of a frown before sitting down.

The Andorian watched the pair sit as his eyes slid over to Gral who hurled a small grunt. The two were always sitting together, working together, dining together; they were inseparable. And it didn't take amazing leaps of logic, as the pointy-eared creatures next to him would say, to determine they were building a relationship. He already knew Skon was crazy about T'Pol, of course in a stoic and perfectly Vulcan manner. Worse was that T'Pol enjoyed the company of Skon almost as much. There was a glint in her eye when he was with her, almost the same one he'd noticed back before the Pink Skin and Vulcan were mating. Maybe Archer wasn't troubled by that twinkle in her eye, but Shran was – deeply so.

They talked about Coridan, and Tares led the conversation indicating how they felt about the Vulcans. Gral added his two cents. Shran waxed, what he considered philosophic, giving Shras a bottle from time to time or performing other fatherly duties. And the Vulcans addressed they weren't exactly the most loved of aliens on the planet of Coridan, outlining how they would approach the situation: Shran could lead the discussions as long as they were in agreement on the results.

Everyone settled on that approach, settled the arrangements and determined the drill for the next few days. In the background, he could hear Gral go over the details, but Shran looked out the window to notice the sun barely dipping behind the trees, the sky beginning to light with a faint orange glow. His antennae twisted. Spring. It would darken early and lighten early and the air was still crisp. He liked it.

When the day was over and the arrangements settled, the team separated. Skon and T'Pol left together, just as they had arrived and Shran shook his head.

"They've been spending a lot of time together. And I worry about how she looks at him," said Gral. A growl rumbled in his throat.

"I think you're right," said Shran. As if disgusted with himself, he confessed, "I'm mad because I like Skon."

"You boys don't understand," said Tares, shaking her head. "I don't think Archer has anything to worry about. T'Pol--"

The blue man ignored her. She didn't know the Vulcan like he did, and he was pretty sure the pointy-eared woman who'd become his friend was developing something for the logician. It made the conversation he wanted to have with the Pink Skin more imperative – whatever attraction was growing. The human would have to challenge him, maybe in one the duels he'd heard Vulcans fought to the death.

Gathering his young son, he offered Tares a ride to her place and the two of them hopped in. Shuttling as quickly as he could, he dropped her off – insisting she hurry up and leave – and then raced to his house where he had just enough time to drop off his child before heading to T'Pol's abode where he thought Archer would be.

When he got to the door, he was surprised. Captain Vega answered – the woman he'd been holed up on a planet with for a more than a week … alone – dressed casually. It concerned him because out of her uniform – long raven hair cascading down her slim shoulders, fresh lipstick and eye makeup to enhance her dark brown eyes – the Andorian believed she was even lovelier.

_For a human._

"Where's Archer?" asked Shran.

A purring laugh followed her, and he saw Archer dressed just as casually and sporting a wide smile.

_Good Grendal!_

"Shran," said Archer. "I didn't think you'd actually--"

"Where's T'Pol?"

"I assumed she was still meeting with you and the others."

Shran shook his head. "I've had enough time to drop of Tares, take Shras home and then stop here. I would think your mate," his eyes fixed themselves on Vega for a moment, "would be here."

A furrow worked along Archer's brow. "Maybe they're caught up with other business, she said --"

Shran didn't believe that for a second. Accusingly, he pointed his finger to Vega. "What's she doing here?"

"Mel just stopped by," he said.

The woman twisted a finger in her tendril and looked at her watch. "I didn't realize I'd been here so long. Time just flew."

"It's okay. It was nice to have some company."

Shran glared as Archer's smile turned lopsided and Mel averted her eyes to look at her shoes.

"You have the Vulcan to keep you company," said Shran.

The Pink Skin rolled his eyes and started talking about friendship – all of which got ignored. Shran stepped through the door, leaving it open, and nodded his head for Vega to leave. Instead she narrowed her eyes.

"Jon, do you want me to--?" she asked.

Shran knew she was about to ask stay, so he interrupted her. "I've got business to attend with you, Pink Skin. I need your time."

After an awkward farewell that lasted way too long in the blue man's opinion, the woman finally left and Shran shut the door. His antennae, he noticed, whirled.

"What do you think you're doing?" he asked.

"Huh?" asked Archer.

"You're enticing her to be your mate."

"What?!" Confusion spread over the human's face and he shook his head vehemently. "We're friends, Shran."

"Mmmm-hmmm."

Without letting the human say more, Shran cajoled him into attending a bar – a favorite with Ki'ar, in the middle of a neighborhood that Archer protested was seedy. Shran didn't mind or notice; he enjoyed the lampposts missing light bulbs and the smell of fish that hung in the sea air. He also liked the crowd at the Anchor – everyone there could've been in the Imperial Guard dressed in dark colors, sporting grimaces and with a glint in their eyes that held contempt. The Andorian pushed his way into the place and sat at a table toward the back where light barely illuminated from the walls surrounding the joint.

Shran kicked his feet into the next chair and leaned back after ordering Andorian ale. A smile slid onto his face as he heard Archer ask for the same.

"Pink Skin, you've got to fight Skon."

"Shran, where do you get--"

"I'll be your second, in case something happens to you. As the arat to my son, I owe you that much."

"T'Pol and Skon are colleagues and friends."

_Humans are as thick as Tellarite mud._ "They spend a lot of time together."

"So do you and I."

Shran's finger unconsciously moved around his newly brought glass and he swallowed his ale in one gulp.

The Andorian said, "She … looks at him."

"That's what eyes are for."

"I remember the way you used to look at each other, before either of you admitted feelings. She stares at him that way, and he returns that gaze."

That made Archer put down his drink. "I trust T'Pol."

"Trust has nothing to do with it." Shran paused only long enough to order another drink. "If a man looked at Jhamel that way, I would sever his antennae."

"Humans have friendships that are close. I think T'Pol likes having a friend from her home planet."

"What is your intention with Vega?" asked Shran.

"What do you mean?"

"Why are you enticing her to mate?"

He coughed, nearly sputtering the drink he was nursing. "What makes you think I'm enticing her to mate?"

"I've seen you act that way before – with Jhamel's friend, Miranda. Although, I can't say as I blame you."

"I was never really interested in Miranda. She was pretty, but … I was interested in T'Pol."

"And now?"

"I'm still only interested in T'Pol." Archer leaned on the table. "What's gotten into you?"

"I'm telling you, I don't like the way Skon and T'Pol look at each other."

"I have a bond with T'Pol. I know exactly how she feels – she likes him. She's friends with him. That's it."

"I would've thought you would be jealous. I've seen you narrow your eyes at Skon."

Archer sighed. "I … might be a little jealous, but I trust T'Pol."

"Jhamel has a friend – a human – who was married to a man for twenty years. Just last week, this woman determined her mate was sleeping with another. I don't want that to happen to you."

"You don't understand," said Archer. "Because of the bond, I would _know_."

Shran's mouth fell into a straight line. _The poor dyga._ "I know it's human tradition to marry. You going to?"

The human fell silent, as if pondering how to answer the question.

"You already asked her."

Archer sighed. "Kinda."

"And she rejected you?"

"It's not quite like that."

_This is worse than I thought!_ Immediately he ordered another round of ales. "I knew after mating with Jhamel in the ice caves that she and I were destined to be together, but she was hesitant at first. I had to woo her – show my sexual prowess as a male."

Archer scratched his head, wincing.

Shran continued, "I wouldn't take 'no' for an answer, and eventually she became overwhelmed by me." He swallowed the entire contents of his drink. "That, and I got her pregnant. Maybe you should do that with T'Pol."

A cough prevented him from responding.

"What's wrong? Are you not mating often enough?"

The human blinked for a few moments before answering. "We mate … enough. Shran, maybe it's acceptable on your planet to impregnate someone which prompts them to marry, but …. I want to give us both time. I've only been home a few days and we've only been in a relationship where we've been together about three weeks."

"You've known her for more than ten years."

"I've known her as a friend, not romantically. Even in the time I've been home, we haven't had a lot of time together."

"Skon?"

A frown crept on Archer's face and he shrugged his shoulders. "Part of it is him."

"I knew it!"

"But, she's been busy with the Ithanite and now meeting with the Coridan."

Another round was delivered and Shran greedily emptied the glass. "That's no excuse!"

"You said you had something else to discuss?" asked Archer.

A glass thudded on the table, not wanting to beat around the bush. "I do. General Krag wants to use dilithium for a war ship."

"Ever since you've shown us that crystal, our scientists have been working on it, but … I'm not sure we're even close to figuring out how to get energy out of it. The Vulcans might be closer to--"

"The General doesn't want to work with the Vulcans. He wants me to work with the humans."

The human bristled a little. "That goes against the treaty our governments signed … that _we've _signed, Shran."

Thy'lek kicked back a little more, and nodded. "I know."

Archer narrowed his eyes. "By telling me this, you know T'Pol might find out."

His antennae drooped by centimeters. "Maybe."

"Did you want her to?"

"I can't help what happens after I've done my duty."

The human crossed his arms and settled into his seat. "Do you _really _think it's possible to run a starship using dilithium at warp seven while maintaining shields and firing phase canons?"

"Our scientists have proven it's possible, but converting it into energy has proven more difficult that we could've imagined."

Suddenly, Archer's face went pale. "The Arali wanted that crystal you had and the whereabouts to others like it."

"Yes."

"Do you think the Romulans started war looking for power?" asked Archer. "I mean literal fuel?"

"I would think they would have plasma as Earth or Andoria."

"Plasma only allows a ship to maintain warp seven _or _raise shields _or _fire phase canons. Not all at once, at least not with current technology."

"They _have _been more intent on Andoria," said Shran.

Archer sipped at his drink, wincing only slightly as he swallowed it, and then rested his head on his chest. With a long breath, he spoke quietly.

"Maybe having Andoria and Earth collaborate on dilithium-based energy isn't such a bad idea."

"You mean leaving out the Tellarites and Vulcans?"

The light in the Pink Skin's eyes faded, turning dark and his voice went hoarse. If Shran didn't know any better, he would say the human had a secret in which he couldn't share.

"Maybe," said Archer.

"So you would betray T'Pol and her people?" asked Shran.

"Never T'Pol," he said quickly. "There may be reasons for keeping this from the Vulcans."

That stiffened his antennae, but he knew better than ask questions about that; he knew the Pink Skin wouldn't answer. "And the Tellarites? Gral would never forgive me."

"If we shared the technology with them when complete--"

"I don't know if Krag would do it."

"Earth would."

"It would hurt the alliance."

"Yes, but every planet would be eager to have it; they would forgive our races easily."

Shran waved the bartender over for another drink. "I feel like a cheat. As an Imperial Guardsman--"

"Your general asked you to do it; it wasn't _your _choice."

"And if T'Pol finds out?" he asked.

"Not _if_, when." Archer finished the rest of his drink. "I believe she would side with us."

This was the human Shran knew – cocky. "You'll contact your government?"

"I'll let you know." Before the drinks were brought, Archer began to make excuses about getting home, but the Andorian wouldn't let him off so easy.

"Let's go back to our conversation about T'Pol," said Shran.

Archer sighed, "Let's not."

"I'm telling you, keep Skon at bay. I don't like the way my antennae twitch when the two are together."

"What am I supposed to do? He's her aide."

The Pink Skin grew pinker, as if the ale was beginning to affect him despite only having two glasses. The words he spoke were less formal than before and desperation rang in them, as if he was indeed worried about the Vulcan as a potential rival.

"I gave you plenty of ideas – challenge him or impregnate her." Waving Archer's dismissal away, he said, "Watching T'Pol with Shras, I think she wants to be with child. She'd be a good mother. You've known her for years and … let's face it, you're not getting any younger."

Archer rolled his eyes and was about to push himself from the table when the Andorian pointed at him.

He said, "Everything I say is true. None of us live forever."

"I know."

"Then you'd better do something about it before a younger man takes your mate."

This time he was sure Archer was about to get up, so the Andorian decided to table that issue for the time being and talked about a subject he knew Archer wouldn't mind – Shras.

"My child is hung like a cry-rog," said Shran, a grin spreading over his face.

And then he happily covered the topic of his son eagerly and thoroughly.

---

T'Pol looked at the clock and watched the hands of it swing past midnight, giving the slightest frown as she did so. Jonathan wasn't home. Through the bond, she knew he and Shran had migrated from a bar to a place where in her bondmate's words they could "shoot pool." And although she knew exactly where he was and what he was up to, she was disappointed they didn't spend time together that day.

Ever since he'd been home, they'd barely had an opportunity to see each other. She had duties for her planet – involving the Ithan and now Coridan, hoping to sway them to join the council. There were obligations as the arat that robbed her of more than a day.

Yet, none of those things bothered her as much as the disagreement they'd had yesterday, the one that Skon came at the end of. She'd tried to explain how out of control she'd been, how engaging in sex, being bombarded by his thoughts and living with him made her more emotional. He'd asked if it was her addiction to trellium, and in some ways it felt that way – the loss of control was pleasurable, tantalizing. But when she took trellium, there were peaks and valleys. In the valleys, she could focus her attention on the bridge, compute astrometric projections and perform her duties. Now, nearly every minute of every day was a peak – emotion nearly seeping out at every interaction. When Jonathan laughed, she had to concentrate on preventing a smile. Jealousy, something that had rumbled in him, caused her to clench her fists and her stomach to tighten. Even as he began to feel inebriated playing billiards with his friend, the room lurched slightly to the left and her motor skills suffered.

The hands of the clock dipped past twelve thirty.

Every single emotional response her bondmate had became her own, as if it belonged to her. Controlling her own emotions was difficult enough, controlling his and hers together: impossible.

_It is no way for a Vulcan to live._

Then, she remembered: this emotional closeness created problems with Trip as well. When Enterprise brought aboard three Orion slaves she noticed emotions raged within her – desire – but not at the green-skinned females who traipsed down corridors. She found herself wanting Trip, desperately. It caused her to kiss him, wantonly in the hall as if she were a human woman. They were Trip's emotions, traded so that he would be immune to the Orion's and their pheromones.

It wasn't just the Orions. Many other emotions, due to the bond, presented themselves and attempted to swallow her whole. Back then, the trellium still fresh in her system, it was more impossible to control. There were times she remembered _showing _emotion.

_Disgusting._

A thought occurred. _Maybe it is something else entirely. _

During Jonathan's absence, she felt only slightly more out of control. Increasing her meditation seemed to stave outbursts.

_The bond is stronger now. Perhaps that is the problem._

Before she could think on it further, the door to her apartment opened and she watched as her mate tossed his keys on the table and removed his shoes in the middle of the kitchen. A habit.

"You did not tell me where you would be," she said.

"You knew I was out with Shran," he said. "I didn't think I'd need to call home. Besides I could tell Skon was keeping you company."

Pushing herself from the table, she rose. That was a subject that needed to be addressed. From the conversations with Shran, she knew her mate's ire had awakened.

"Skon left three hours ago."

A hand dug through his hair and he slumped into a chair at the dining room table. "I'm just tired of him spending all his time over here. Doesn't he have some place to go?"

"We see Shran on a regular basis, you don't seem to mind that."

Archer blew out a long breath.

Thoughts came to his mind; although he'd ignored Shran's comments about pregnancy and challenging her aide, he ruminated on marriage or more precisely why she didn't want to. Watching his eyes, she could even tell he was warming to the idea of children if it meant they could be together.

Sliding into the seat across from him, she stared into his eyes. "You'll be gone in another month."

"I don't think I'll be ready to go. I want more time with you."

Her hands reached out for his, covering them. "You could resign."

"No. No, I can't."

The two gazed at each other for a few minutes and she read every thought in his mind – loyalty and duty to Starfleet – they were too strong. She had already known that, but the suggestion of leaving needed to be said.

"Let's go to bed," she whispered.

Their hands intertwined and they walked into the bedroom together. Teeth brushed and face washed, he scooted beside her on the bed and she wrapped her arms around him to hold him while they slept. It may've been his wishes, but the _feeling _to protect him crept around her insides as well. Placing her head on the pillow, she snuggled to his body before drifting to sleep.

TBC


	38. Chapter 38

A/N: Thanks for the reviews. Anna, I'd love to update daily, but I just don't have that much time. ;) I promise to try and update more frequently; I know the last two or three chapters have taken a while. I like to usually update once a week, but have had some stuff happen that has taken my time.

Mega thanks to Mana!

Anyway, on with the fic.

---

Archer visited Admiral Gardner, providing information about how the Andorians wanted to work together to create dilithium to fuel starship vessels. It didn't take long to convince him, despite that there would be no involvement from the other races. Both men knew getting closer to a seemingly limitless energy source was worth the possible temporary damage to diplomatic relations.

It also didn't surprise Archer to hear Gardner and the president were considering nuclear weapons to stop the Romulans – too many ships were lost: the Thames, Phoenix, Kilimanjaro, Shi'Kahr, Kita, T'Ran, Mena …. It didn't stun him, but it was a decision he personally couldn't condone. Nuclear weapons nearly destroyed the planet almost ever since Oppenheimer helped invent them; 1945, 2011 and then again in 2049.

_I hope that's a decision they don't make._

When he left Starfleet, he stopped by to see old friends before going to one of the many services that lay ahead for him. Death. So many crewmen were dead and it was the time to bury them, finally putting their souls to rest.

_Chris Richards._ _Today is his time._

Travis, Hoshi and Malcolm waited at a Nob Hill restaurant. Despite the somber occasion, they seemed happy to see each other. Hoshi and Malcolm caught Archer up on every event that had taken place in the three months he'd been gone, discussed their wedding – only a couple of months away – her teaching position and the politics at the Academy. Finally, the conversation turned to how the investigation of the Council building bombing. Reed sneered his lip and said gruffly, "nowhere fast."

No clue was left behind. Every security camera had been reviewed and yet no video recorded what happened. Tidbits of clothing, bones and personal items had been collected and analyzed without any results. Interviews led to nothing interesting. Nothing. Before the Brit continued to become upset, Archer made sure to comment that the Romulans would never leave a trace and that they'd have to all move on; it didn't seem to halt Reed's dedication to solving this particular case.

They discussed the war – it was fresh on their minds. Bad news lead to worse, Reed had first-hand knowledge that Starfleet and the president were considering putting untrained crewmen in Starfleet vessels, and not just armed men like the MACOs; they were looking to recruit engineers who had starship design expertise, language specialists and more to plant in the ships that were coming off the line. Apparently, there just weren't enough personnel.

"Never happen," said Travis.

"They're desperate enough to do anything," said Reed.

Archer could only silently agree.

After the bill was paid, the three walked to the cemetery – only four blocks away. When they arrived, they saw other friends – Mel Vega and Dr. Higgins (the doctor aboard the Potomac) were already there. The moment Mel noticed Archer, she walked over to him and drew him into a hug.

"There are two more tomorrow," she whispered into his ear. "Two men from my crew."

"I'll be there."

"I know," she said.

As the man behind the podium began the service, Jon felt raindrops on his face – cold and wet. Lowering his head, he remembered Trip's funeral and the downpour in Miami. An ironic frown spread, causing his eyebrows to furrow; it'd rained the day his father died, too.

The casket was lowered into the grave and the rain turned to mist, barely noticeable. The preacher made his final remarks and the crowd dispersed, causing Jon to wonder if memories of Trip and his father had consumed the entire ceremony so much so that he barely gave Chris a thought. Memories hadn't come: Chris' skull bashed in by a beam that had fallen, admissions of his love for Rita and the words he'd spoken about Erika having died along with the Columbia so many months ago. For a minute, Archer had even forgotten what the captain sounded like and looked like.

"Bloody war," hissed Reed under his breath.

_Bloody. This war is definitely that._

Dr. Higgins made his way over. "Some of us – Travis, Malcolm and Westing, are going to McSorley's to wish Chris goodbye. Give him the wake he deserves. Want to join us?"

"I need to get back," lied Archer.

"Sure," said Higgins.

Closing his eyes, there was a peace of solitude in the graveyard except for one person behind him who shied from approaching.

"You don't have to stay, Mel," he said.

"I know." After pausing, she asked, "Do you want company?"

Opening his eyes, he saw the woman who had reported to him, and yet today she appeared more vulnerable and feminine. Her black dress flowed around her tiny frame and her hair was loose and damp from the rain.

"Sure," he said.

As the two walked a little, viewing the tombstone, Mel asked, "Where's T'Pol? I thought she'd be here."

"She had a meeting with an ambassador from Coridan."

"You okay?"

"Yeah." He sighed. "Just … thinking about things."

"You weren't responsible for his death."

"I know. It's just … Trip was so young and had so much potential."

"Trip?"

"Huh?"

"You said Trip. You mean Chris right?" she asked.

"Chris. Right."

Intertwining her arm in his, she pressed her face into his shoulder.

"Let's walk around for a bit," she said.

Cherry blossoms bloomed, their white and pink flowers dotting the graveyard, and the two walked under them – mesmerized by how they drifted along with the air before lighting on their clothing. Mel had a pink one, dainty, stuck in her hair despite trying to dislodge it several times.

"Trip. You've said that name before. Who is he?"

"Charles Tucker. A friend of mine."

"Isn't he the engineer from Enterprise?" she asked.

"Yeah."

"So what's the story with him?"

"He died three days before Enterprise's mission was over – three days before Enterprise was decommissioned."

Archer sighed and looked at the sky, drizzle pelting him in the face. "Maybe we should head indoors."

She shrugged. "I'm already wet."

"Trip and I used to go to bar on the marina and watch the ships go by. Chris said he liked the place. Interested?"

"Of course," she said.

With that the two headed into a shuttle car and made their way to the Embarcadero area. Archer loosened the tie he wore and flipped off his jacket, before sipping on a Pacifico and shooting oysters into his mouth along with Mel.

---

Shran, with Shras harnessed to his chest, and Gral walked into together at their normal meeting place – a room without any real décor in the middle of some strip mall that only had one large conference room, a monitor, a bathroom and a kitchen. The Andorian frowned at the facilities, tired of them already, as he slipped into his normal seat and waited for Tares to stroll in with the Coridan ambassador. He was scheduled to arrive earlier in the day, and by all rights his aide should've called already.

As he grabbed a seat, he looked over at T'Pol and Skon, shaking his head. Neither had noticed his presence, despite scraping his chair against the linoleum along with Gral. Shran was about to interrupt them, when Gral leaned over.

"Didn't you talk to Archer about this?" asked Gral.

"Maybe you'd have better luck," said Shran. "I think he's jealous, but he says he _trusts _her."

Gral nodded when finally T'Pol and Skon turned their attention to the two.

"Where is Tares?" asked T'Pol.

"I tried contacting her, but she must still be with the Coridan ambassador," said Shran.

"She should have retrieved him nearly three hours ago," said Skon.

"Maybe they did some sightseeing. Tares tells me this is his first time to Earth," said Shran.

Gral's snout twitched and mouth opened when suddenly through the doors came two figures – Tares and a cloaked figure trailing behind her. Unlike the other Coridan ambassador that left Earth in a huff months ago, this one, Shran thought, looked like a freedom fighter – one of the men that would've taken it as a personal honor to kill Vulcans. Even with the minimal amount of Coridan Shran knew, the runes on his cloak gave him away; the Andorian had seen those markings nearly ten years ago when he helped rescue his Pink Skin friend and the Vulcan.

"Sorry we're late," said Tares. Her hands went to her black bodice, barely containing her blue skin, and she righted it. "This is Daran."

Immediately, the figure, roughly Tares' height, pushed off the hood of his robe. Eyes darkening, he glared at the Vulcans. Introductions went around the room until T'Pol and Skon were announced, and suddenly the Coridan scoffed under his breath.

"You knew they would be here," said Shran.

"Doesn't mean they disgust me less," said Daran.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw the corners of T'Pol's mouth draw down as she blinked.

"You should show more respect," said Gral. He pushed his little body from the table, as if to show ferocity, his teeth bared and snout twitching.

Tares held out her arms in front of her and spoke with precision. "Please, Daran agreed to meet with us. Isn't that a step in the right direction?"

"Yes," said T'Pol. With the slightest hesitation in her voice, she continued, "I feel it is my duty to … apologize for the misunderstanding between my people and yours. The Vulcan High Command--"

Daran said, "Was incompetent, and forced us to accept a government we did not choose."

"And that was wrong," she said.

Grabbing a seat next to Shran, he nudged his cloak off and stared at the quiet group. "I'm waiting."

Skon pointed his fingers under his chin and leaned in. "Waiting?"

"Waiting to be convinced I should join you. Tares has already communicated to me how important this is. I want to hear what your offers are."

"Galactic peace isn't enough incentive?" asked T'Pol.

"Not really, Vulcan, no."

Gral whispered only so Shran could hear. "Ki'ar was much more fun."

_Don't I know it._

Daran folded his arms across his chest, the sneer on his face spreading like ice flows during the long winter months on Andoria. So, Shran pointed a blue hand at the man, hoping to stop it.

"If it hadn't been for the Andorians," he said, "you'd still be licking the boots of the Vulcans. We helped your civil war and even brokered a deal for the Vulcans to leave. As far as I'm concerned, you owe my people one."

Daran said, "The reason the Andorians helped us is the reason I listened to Tares and allowed her to contact me." Standing, he paced around the room. "I'll be blunt. My people still lack some of the sophisticated technology your people hold."

Shran's eyes headed over to T'Pol; the ghost of a frown on her face was growing.

Retrieving a list, Daran continued, "The people of Coridan want ring-ship technology and warp capability from the Vulcans, shield technology from the Andorians, transporter technology from the humans and navigation control of the Tellarites."

Shran was about to tell him to stick his list where the caves don't dwell, when Daran continued.

"In addition, I would like for the Vulcans to give my people reparations for the damage your people have done to my planet."

"What damage is that?" asked T'Pol.

"Because of you, buildings were bombed, people were killed--"

"The Vulcans didn't do that to you," said Gral. "From where the Tellarite sit, you people did that to yourselves."

"I'm not finished!" yelled Daran. "I want the Vulcans to secure four million krodak to make amends for meddling in affairs of Coridan--"

Skon raised an eyebrow. "We assisted your planet with agriculture so that your people would not starve. Helped you with medicine to cure disease. Worked side-by-side with you to create a system so that your people could govern and achieve order. Before we arrived, your people were at war – chaos ensued, disease was rampant and factions attempted to assassinate each other." The Vulcan leaned forward. "Tell me, exactly what should we pay damages for?"

Shran's antennae twitched. "Skip, the Vulcans arrived without an invitation. No one likes a meddler."

Daran smiled.

The blue man pushed himself from the table. "And yet, Daran, a lot of what the Vulcan said was true. I think the only thing the Vulcans are guilty of is overstaying their welcome."

"Thousands of my people died to re-establish our government, to free ourselves from the shackles of the Vulcans. That's not simply overstaying a welcome."

Gral grunted. "The Vulcans were never engaged in your war."

Daran said, "Some of them were."

"You're being unreasonable," said Gral. "You can't make every Vulcan pay for--"

"We'll pay it," said T'Pol.

Shran's antennae shot up. When his gaze slid over toward her, he could tell even her aide looked surprised.

T'Pol pushed herself from her seat and walked toward Daran. "Much of what you said is true. Some of my people were involved in your civil war; we believed at the time we were supporting the rightful government of Coridan." She sighed. "We obviously made a mistake."

"That's all it is – a mistake?!" asked Daran.

"You're right to ask us to pay for the problems that ensued because of our involvement. I'll ask Minister T'Pau to provide your people the money that we owe you."

"Ambassador, I do not believe--" said Skon.

"This is the right thing to do," said T'Pol.

Daran folded his arms. "This is a trick!"

"There is no deception. You have made your point clear, and I agree with you."

Shran walked over after rubbing his antennae to make sure he was sensing everything correctly.

"T'Pol, you're going to pay Daran's people for your … meddling?" asked Shran.

"Yes."

Daran grabbed his cloak. "Good. I won't speak to you again until the money is given to us – and neither will any other Coridan."

Gral snorted.

With that, he headed out the door. For a moment, Shran wished he'd had the opportunity to reach for the tarpig's face and smash it into his blue fist. By the looks on nearly everyone's face in the room, he guessed most of them wanted to do the same – maybe even the male logician.

A heavy sigh came from Tares. "I had no idea it would come to this. He seemed friendly when I contacted him."

Shran shook his head. "It's not your fault. We should've seen this coming a sot away. We just didn't strategize for this."

Gral said, "Blue's right. But now we're back to square one."

"No, we will provide him his money as soon as possible and talk with him," said T'Pol.

"Ambassador, I have rarely questioned your decisions, but I doubt Minister T'Pau will concur with your assessment or that she will provide you the finances," said Skon.

"You know I hate agreeing with Skip, but he's right. Your minister would have to be out of her orderly, logical mind to pay the Coridans," said Shran.

"I will discuss this with her," she said. "I believe she eventually see the reason behind this request. Besides, as the humans say – it never hurts to ask."

Shran disagreed. "Humans have stupid sayings."

----

A week passed and Archer had lost track of every funeral he'd been to – Rita, Chris, crewmen Johnson, MACO Fritz … they were running together. He'd seen Mel on a daily basis; though assigned to the Panama, the ship had been in dry dock receiving the last pieces of equipment. Starfleet hadn't even sanctioned Mel to board her own vessel yet; Admiral Jeffries wanted to make sure every detail was absolutely and positively correct before letting additional personnel onboard.

In a way, Archer was glad to have a friend around. T'Pol had been pre-occupied with the ambassador from Coridan and paying him the reparations she thought he was owed. It took her away from him nearly every morning, day and night. Jon could count the number of times he'd actually spoken to his bondmate on one hand in the past week. Even Shran and Gral were busy with the same dilemma, unable to socialize. And though he'd be chagrinned to say so, Archer missed their company, even the harassment he was sure both men would deliver over a multitude of topics.

The one productive thing Archer had done in the week was move in – completely and utterly. His furniture, artwork and décor had arrived and been arranged. Porthos already sniffed at every corner and explored every new space as well as developed new habits. He liked to follow Archer into the bathroom, for some good petting time, at the most inappropriate of moments and grumbled at the door if it was closed in such a way the little Beagle couldn't open it. Unfortunately for T'Pol, he practiced the same habits on her, following her into the restroom in the morning despite her pointing out and using her authoritative voice to usher him to leave.

The living room, rather than remain covered with pillows, had a pincushion style couch; it wasn't exactly Jon's favorite, but T'Pol wanted to purchase it. Apparently it reminded her of an ancient Vulcan chair used in the temples on her homeworld.

Cochran's stature already had a place of importance on the wall in the bedroom, standing next to water polo trophies, a picture of Archer's academy graduation, a photo of his father and mother, a candid shot of Trip on a SCUBA dive in Florida and a framed scroll – a gift – given to him after his speech at the Paris conference regarding what the Coalition of Planets now called the Council (or lovingly the Federation).

His mustard yellow and chocolate brown theme fit in perfectly with her red draperies, bedspreads and candles. His overly masculine, Earthbound doodads and her feminine, Vulcan necessities belonged together. And when everything was settled, Archer couldn't help but prop his feet up, hands behind his head on the pincushion couch, leaning against one of her pillows and recognize this as _their _home.

His eyes resting on the starfish pattern in the living room, he gave a broad smile.

"Everything fits like a glove, T'Pol."

Bringing a glass of wine to him, she slipped off her shoes and nodded her head before sitting next to him. She curled against his body, her face rubbing gently against his shoulder.

"It does," she said.

Porthos hopped up next to her and wandered into her lap. A satisfied sigh left Archer's lips and then his mouth closed on hers, reminding him that it'd been too damned long since they'd been intimate.

_Has it been a week?_

Council business kept her up late, and despite him trying to keep his eyes open until she climbed into bed, he found himself usually dozing off – even with the light on and a book in his lap. He also noticed that when he awoke, the light would be turned off and the book would rest on the nightstand near his side of the bed.

As his mouth nibbled on her throat, the monitor in their bedroom beeped.

"Ignore it," he whispered into her ear.

Disrupting his dog, he pushed T'Pol onto the couch so that her back rested against it. To his delight, she not only welcomed his advances, her lips attacked his with more stubbornness than the first time they'd kissed. Fingers tore through his hair and he knew she too was thinking about how damned long it'd been. She even bit at his neck and raked her teeth across his chin, encouraging him to do the same.

The doorbell rang again.

"Don't answer it," he said, his tongue sliding along the point of her ear.

"I can't ignore both the monitor and the door. What if someone from the Council is trying to contact me," she said, breathlessly.

_It's probably Skon, _he thought as his mouth devoured hers

"_Ki'ar is scheduled to contact one of us about joining the Council. Maybe he called Skon tonight," thought T'Pol to Archer._

"I don't care," he said again as his fingers moved to start freeing her of clothing.

Although T'Pol seemed eager, she pushed herself up as Archer's hands fell to his side – failing his task, took a deep breath and gave an apologetic look before sauntering off to open the door. Through the bond and then visually Jon saw the culprit, and suddenly a growl formed in his throat. He faked a cough to mask the sound.

"Skon. What a surprise," said Archer.

T'Pol's lips flattened, eyes shooting over in his direction – warning him to be kind. Instead, Archer exhaled loudly, leaning back against the couch to stare at the ceiling. Closing his eyes, he tried to excise the need to throttle Skon and jump T'Pol.

"I apologize if I have intruded," said Skon.

"You are never an intrusion," said T'Pol.

Archer opened his eyes enough to roll them.

"I received a communication from Shran," said Skon. "Apparently, Ki'ar was partially successful in persuading his government to ally with us. Ki'ar would like for us to schedule a time when the Council and his leader can discuss the details of a treaty."

"He's looking for something?" she asked.

"It certainly appears so," said Skon. "Also, I wanted to remind you about the meeting with Soval tomorrow."

T'Pol nodded.

"Do we need to discuss it?" asked Skon.

Before T'Pol could answer, Archer sat upright. "Don't want to over-plan."

"Do you feel it's necessary?" she asked.

"There is some truth to what the admiral says, and yet …."

"Then come in and sit down," she said.

The two wandered to the table and almost immediately began working, discussing their approach on what to do about the reparations. Jaw-dropped, Archer pushed himself off the couch and stared at his mate in disbelief – waiting for her to tell Skon to leave.

_That does it._

Jon stalked over to the table and in his deepest of voices – the one he reserved for captain, usually when he was attempting to get someone to scramble to do his bidding – began speaking.

"T'Pol, you've planned every night for the past week with Skon on this matter." Before she could cut in and explain she was attempting to help her aide who appeared unsure of the approach, Jon shook his head. "I think Skon should leave."

His eyes locked with Skon's and for a moment, there was a glint of defiance, as if a challenge had been made. Pushing up a sleeve, Jon was tempted to meet that challenge when T'Pol spoke.

"Jonathan," she said, "you do not have the right to tell guests when to leave."

Narrowing his eyes, he placed his hands on his hips. "I do. This is my place, too."

"However, it is not only your abode. I live here, as well."

"I know," he said. "And I've been supportive and understanding of the two of you working here into the wee hours. Tonight, I would like to spend time with you."

She heaved the smallest of sighs. "I would like to spend time with you, too. But, this isn't about us. The Council is attempting to end a war. And I am doing my duty."

Hand cupping her cheek, he gazed into her eyes. _"I just want one night with you, alone. I don't think that's too much to ask."_

"_I want that as well, but I cannot allow war to destroy our planets because we needed time alone and gratification."_

His hand fell to his side before combing through his hair.

"_When will you be done?" he asked. _

"_I won't linger. Perhaps I can end this in two hours?"_

Nodding hesitantly, he grabbed a book and his glass of wine and retired to the couch, mostly so he could remind T'Pol he was waiting for her as well as keep an eye on Skon. The words Shran spoke only week ago – and had repeated ever since that conversation – rang in his mind. Fight. The urge to challenge Skon becoming overwhelming, as if he needed to prove to T'Pol he was the dominant male and would give her children superior genome. Rationally, though, Archer realized an angry, well-fed Vulcan had roughly three times the strength he did. Irrationally, he wondered if he could give the logician at least a good fight.

Two hours passed quickly, as he continued to let his brain chew on what to do about Skon. He believed those thoughts distracted her, because good to her word, she shuffled Skon out the door. Turning to her mate, he witnessed something like seduction in her eyes as she whispered to him.

"You have been thinking of the kun-ut kali-fi?"

Tossing his book to his side, he heard himself say the words as if in a trance. "I would fight for you."

An eyebrow hitched on her forehead and she sauntered to him.

"You don't need to," she said.

Passionate kisses fell on him, clouding his mind with chaos and loosening the caution he usually provided. Barely aware of his surroundings, he realized he'd been stripped of clothing – shirt shredded below him – and that he had done her almost the same service. It didn't stop him from continuing though, and as their actions became more demanding and careless, he felt a smile cross his lips and one nearly spread across her face as well.

When his body collided to the floor, pushed by her, he wore a grin and nothing else.

---

T'Pol awoke the next morning expecting a communication from Soval. T'Pau, as Skon indicated, had already disagreed with granting reparations especially the number that Daran threw out. There were more members of the Vulcan High Command and she summarily talked with every single one: Kovak, Soval and T'Pau. She'd tried hailing others that her family had known in a position of power for naught. Even her friend and mentor Soval had trouble with the notion that the Vulcans had interfered negatively with the Coridan people and they should accept public shame – what T'Pol assumed the money was – for their intrusion.

Although her friend and mentor had disagreed with her idea of paying off the Coridans, he granted her one more hearing. Waking up early, she showered and meditated to calm the emotions rumbling underneath the surface – the ones that were omnipresent these days.

When Soval's image appeared on the screen, T'Pol greeted him, showing her hand to the screen and parting it in her people's greeting. He returned the gesture.

"It is agreeable to see you again," he said.

"And you," she said. "Thank you for hearing my case once more."

Before she could open her mouth and begin to convince him, Soval – uncharacteristically – interrupted.

"Because I have known you so many years, I have a question to ask you."

"What it is?"

"Are you asking Vulcan to repay Coridan because you believe we have caused such hardship on their people, or because being bonded with Archer – and his feelings of how we treated the Earthlings were treated - makes you intent on paying?"

A ghost of a frown threatened to spread across her face and she shook her head. "Jonathan's wound for his father's and Earth's treatment _does_ go deep. However, it does not influence my decision."

Soval stood and placed his hands behind his back. "The Vulcans have attempted nearly every possible policy regarding how we approach new worlds. With the Andorians and Coridan, we provided them technology, medicine and more. With the Tellarites and Orions, we allowed _them _to contact us first, determining they would be more prepared for alien cultures. And with the Earthers, we waited until they had the technology, medicine and agriculture _first _before we presented ourselves to them. Without exception, each of them grew dissatisfied with our policy."

She was aware of the policies and the failures with every one. Waiting, she hoped he would make his point.

"T'Pol, do you believe we had mal intent?"

"No."

"So, if we pay the Coridan, what is to stop us from paying other races?"

"Soval," she said, "Coridan was the only planet that engaged in civil war due to our policy. The Andorians, Tellarites, Orion and even the humans banded together _against _us."

"We did not force the Coridan to choose sides."

"Yes, we did. We helped determine their government and then protected it once it came under attack. Imagine if the Vulcans were unable to oust V'Las, despite his incompetence."

"You met Chancellor Gadin. Do you think she was incompetent?"

"By our standards, no. But, we did not allow them to determine that for themselves. The Coridan had the right to govern as they please, not follow our rules of law because we know best."

Soval was silent.

She said, "Minister, our greatest mistake with each of the races is something only you and I know to be true – Vulcan arrogance. It is our unfortunate legacy to believe we know better than any race, despite our belief in the IDIC philosophy."

"We did not insist our way was best when dealing with the humans."

"Of course we did. We told them we would not provide them assistance because of our non-interference policy. We patronized them, rather than treat them as equals. And, you know that we have done so with every single race we have encountered."

His lips flattened more. "You are correct when you say we may be the only two Vulcans who know our weakness."

She said, "T'Pau has been holed up in the Forge and on Vulcan all her life."

"Minister Kovak is less … stubborn, but he too has never left our planet."

"I take it you agree with me then?" she asked.

Soval furrowed his brow. "I do not agree, however, you make a compelling argument. I believe we should engage in more discussion regarding this topic."

"Thank you."

"You and your aide should return to Vulcan and argue this in person."

As soon as the words were said, her heart raced and a frown she'd attempted to prevent from marring her face turned the corners of her mouth down in a nearly open display of emotion.

_Not this._

She said, "I am still making headway with the Ithanite ambassador and there are various duties to perform …."

"Those sound like excuses." Soval said, "Ambassadors Shran or Gral seem competent to lead in your absence."

_I won't see Jonathan again before he leaves._ "Shran and Gral are competent, but they all rely on me to lead."

"I find it difficult to believe you find that either Shran or Gral are incapable of leading."

Her eyes fell to the floor. Panic was an emotion she'd felt only a few times – when she experimented with trellium. Now, it turned her insides into fire and caused her stomach to tighten as if to implode.

"Your bondmate will understand," he said.

_Why am I so desperate to stay with Jonathan? Illogical._

"Very well. I'll work with my aide. In the meantime, ask for a hearing on my behalf regarding the Coridan matter."

T'Pol couldn't miss the pride in his eyes directed at her. "Of course," he said. "Give my … warm regards to Archer and Shran."

"Live long and prosper," she said.

He returned the greeting and the screen faded to black. When it did, she felt herself shake – tremble with an unknown fear. Hand quaking, she touched her temple and attempted to clear her mind. Futile. Her thoughts must've called out to Jonathan because he suddenly appeared at her side.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

She allowed him to see in the bond. "I must return to Vulcan."

"When?" he asked.

_It must be clear why; he didn't put up a fight._

She said, "I should leave within the week."

"You're taking Skon," he said. It wasn't a question.

"Yes," she said.

Suddenly, their mouths met hungrily in a torrent of desire. The kiss included their tongues and teeth. And then chaos ensued. Instead of talking through her departure while they gave each other tender Vulcan finger-kisses, she found herself on the floor covered with his body. For some unknown reason, he had pinned her as their mouths continued to devour each other's, each embrace greedier and angrier than before.

"You belong to me," he whispered, hotly, into her ear.

TBC


	39. Chapter 39

A/N: I apologize for misspellings. I have to admit, I was a bit rushed in this one, but I wanted to get something out before Thanksgiving especially since it's been more than a week. Have a safe and happy one.  
----

These days Archer felt just a tad uncomfortable in his own skin. It tingled, causing the hairs on his arms, neck and legs to stand up as if chilly or nervous almost every waking minute of the day. Maybe, he admitted, it started because he'd return back to the front sooner than expected. Maybe, he confessed in the bottom of his soul, it continued because he was unsure where he stood with T'Pol.

Miranda, his doctor, had given him a clean bill of health and Starfleet had already started working on which ship to assign him to. As he waited in Union Square park wondering which vessel he'd be assigned to and whether he'd be able to stay on Earth until at least T'Pol returned from Vulcan, he spied his friend.

Mel -- her hair tied behind her, ringlets falling across her face in the breeze -- wore a beaming smile as she walked up to him. Hands in her jeans pockets, the minute she saw him, the smile transformed into a grin.

"Jon," she said.

Scooting on the bench beside him, she shoved a white bag over to him filled with caramel popcorn – hot as if it were fresh.

"You get this for me?" he asked.

"I know you like it." Digging into the bag, she grabbed a handful for herself. "It's to make up for being late."

"Nice appeasement." Grabbing into the bag, he shot a couple of kernels into his mouth. "What happened?"

"Just got back from Starfleet." Mischief in her eye, her grin brightened. "I got some good news."

"Really?"

"The Panama will take off in five days."

Happy for her, but a little sad for himself that he wouldn't be seeing her, he tried not to let the twinkle in his eyes falter. "That's great, Mel."

Stuffing her hand into the bag of sweets, her eyes met his. "I heard some other good news."

"What?"

"You're coming with me."

A laugh escaped her lungs and despite the bag between them, she threw her arms around him into a hug. As the embrace tightened, he felt his shoulders sag.

"Five days?" he asked.

Mel retreated and frowned at him. "I thought you'd want to come with me."

"T'Pol leaves in three days."

Her arm intertwined with his and she let her head fall to his shoulder. "I'm sorry, Jon."

Stretching a little to reach his arm around her shoulder, he rubbed it a few times. "It's okay. I guess I knew we'd miss each other. It's just … too bad."

"You'll see her again," she said.

"Yeah."

Breaking from his grasp, she scrutinized his face and then leaned back. "What happened to the cocky bastard who got us out of all the scrapes back at the front?"

He sighed, "We almost died."

"Yeah, but we didn't."

"Mel, we've been to a lot of funerals."

"Jon, you and I make a great pair. Thames saved your ass a few times when you needed it saved, and you saved my butt a few times. We look out for each other." And then her lips pouted by the smallest centimeter. "I asked for you to join us. I mean, we have a situation room built in and …. I'm sorry."

Grabbing her chin, he caught her eyes and for the first time really looked into them. Chocolate pools, almost like Porthos', and long dark lashes gazed up at him with adoration. They held hurt, as if she'd offended a close friend, watery and gleaming in the sunlight. Soft black tresses cascaded down her face, loosening from a ponytail, and her lips were large and coral. For a minute, just a second, he thought the woman beside him was beautiful, mainly because she reminded him of T'Pol.

"What?" she asked.

Startled at his own reaction, he backed away. "I was just thinking. I'm not eager to get back there, but I'm glad I'll be working with a friend."

"Still interested in hanging out today?" she asked. "If you're--"

Without letting her finish, he stood and held out a hand to help her up – one she took readily.

"Let's go," he said.

During the day, she chatted eagerly about the crew, indicating many from the Potomac and Thames would be aboard, listing each one of them – along with their skills - including Lt. Mayweather. She also excitedly indicated Dr. Phlox would be joining them due to a few Andorians, Tellarites and Vulcans on board. At his astonishment, she indicated the Panama was the only vessel to do so.

Walking from parks to gardens to cathedrals, they eventually found themselves in a museum, one Archer had insisted on seeing. As they made their way from painting to painting, Mel indicating Chagall was one of her favorites, she continued discussing her new assignment insisting "everything would be perfect."

One thought nagged Archer and because he knew he only had a captain's security clearance – one she shared, he waited until the two were out of the museum and heading to a coffee shop before he asked her.

"There are nuclear weapons aboard, aren't there?"

It stopped her chatter. "Yes."

His head fell and she waited until they sat down, slipping into the seat beside him.

"We'll be all right."

_I hope so. _

-----

The Council members gathered around the table to discuss new possible members – including all the diplomats and aides having recovered from their ordeal and conscious, even Neville Simon the Earth ambassador. Once that topic had exhausted itself, T'Pol, eyes drifting over to Skon who gazed at her expectantly, decided to broach a subject she knew would be controversial.

"I have asked Skon to join me in my return to Vulcan. In my absence, Staron will represent Vulcan."

Shran's antennae wiggled and a scowl worked across his blue face, voice incredulous he leaned against the table.

"Staron? That pi-tig? You should let Skip stay behind. Not only would he represent Vulcan better, we've all grown to at least know him and--"

The Vulcan woman closed her eyes. "I have made my decision."

Gral grunted. "Skinny, you know Blue's right. Skon--"

"I said I made my decision," she said, again.

"I'm not going to let some bowl-haired tarpig tell me how to--"

The Vulcan pushed herself from her seat, hoping to make a point and glared at her Andorian friend. "I made my decision."

"Your decision is flawed," said Shran.

She watched him silently, almost daring him to speak.

"It stinks," he added.

For the first time maybe since her bout with trellium, she found her hand trembling as she pushed a lock of hair away hoping to contain her anger. Skon stood quickly and joined her side instantly, his hand at the small of her back.

"Wreaks!" added Shran.

"I believe we understand your opinion," said Skon.

T'Pol's nose twitched and unlike other days, she could smell him – the sweat of a Vulcan male stinging her nostrils. It was the scent of sun and sand mixed with ancient spices – like runes on decrepit tapestries showcased in temples built at the time of Surak. Her eyes caught his and for the first time since he'd been her aide she felt heat. Fire.

And as soon as the emotion stirred, it vanished leaving only confusion. A conversation had continued somewhere and Shran looked at her demandingly. It was unlike her to guess, but she took a wild stab in the dark at the discussion in an attempt to continue it without alerting the others she'd lost concentration.

"You have grown accustomed to us, I'm certain you will also grow accustomed to Staron," she said.

The Andorian frowned, but remained silent and for a moment T'Pol wondered whether she should "guess" more often.

Finally the blue man stood and walked over to her, his gaze shooting from her to Skon. A finger pointed in her face and his antennae lurched forward in accusation.

"Is Archer going as well?" he asked.

"No," she said. The heat returned and her face nearly flushed at the thought of her bond mate. "He boards the Panama in a week."

"The Panama? I haven't heard of that ship. Whose ship is it?" he asked.

"Captain Vega's."

Gral stood as Shran shook his head and swiped a hand over his white hair. "Listen, T'Pol, I can stomach the snotty Vulcan aide you used to have, but you and I both know he doesn't have the skill that Skip does."

"I need Skon to assist me in persuading the Vulcan High Command to pay reparations," she said. "Skon understands his sister, Minister T'Pau, and what sways her. I want that assistance."

"I think you _want _more than that," he said, under his breath.

His quip didn't miss her Vulcan hearing and she found herself stepping forward toward the confrontation. "I _want _to repay Coridan."

"Repaying the Coridan is more important than interstellar peace? Where's the _logic_ in that?" asked Shran.

"Why are you continuing to question my decision?" she asked.

The Andorian puffed up his chest and a sneer spread over his face. "Because, _Vulcan_, I think you're making an emotional choice, not a logical one. And this isn't your decision – we're a council; we make decisions together."

She narrowed her eyes. "My decision is _logical_. It's to the Council's benefit. I believe your concern about my relationship with Jonathan has tempered your judgment."

"Your relationship with the Pink Skin should temper _your _judgment," he said, accusingly. Unharnessing his child, he left the toddler to Tares and removed the equipment from his chest. "I want to talk with you in private."

She said, "This discussion is over."

Gral walked toward her. "Skinny, are you all right?"

"Fine," she said.

"This conversation isn't over," said Shran. His eyes pleaded for a minute alone and when she didn't capitulate, he shoved a finger in her direction. "As the Ambassador for Andoria, I demand you keep Skon here. He's more skilled than Staron and more likely to convince others to join our cause."

Gral grunted. "Blue is right. I'd be remiss if I didn't ask the same as the Ambassador for Tellar."

The ire that gurgled in her belly rose until it filled her mouth and burned her eyes. Stuffing her hands across her chest, she squinted at the Andorian.

"You think I want my bond mate to return to the front?" she asked. Biting her lip in an attempt to keep her emotions at bay, she eventually spoke. "Minister Soval suggested Skon come, and I agree with his decision."

"Skinny--"

"It's final," she said.

"T'Pol be reasonable and--"

"It's final," she said again.

And making excuses about nature called, she escaped to the restroom in an attempt to calm her nerves. Staring into the mirror, she watched her body shiver with frustration. While her eyes remained transfixed by her own reflection, she heard the conversation continue outside.

"The ambassador has made her decision, and I fail to see the logic in needling her about that," said Skon.

"You want to go with her. Admit it," said Shran.

"Of course. It would be agreeable to see Vulcan again."

"Huh!" huffed Shran.

"I think something's wrong with her," said Gral. "I've seen emotion from her, but never like this."

"I gotta agree with Gral," said Tares. "She seems out of sorts."

Skon lowered his voice. "She has revealed to me that her bond with the human has made it more difficult for her to control her emotions. As her friends, I would hope you would be more understanding."

"She's been bonded to Archer for months," said Gral. "And yet, she's been more affected lately."

"That is true, however, no one is aware of how a human bond may affect a Vulcan." Then with hesitation in Skon's voice, he spoke up. "There could be other reasons that may contribute to this."

And with that sentence, T'Pol lowered her head expecting the truth to surface. Months ago, she'd told Skon, the only person to know other than Archer, that she hadn't passed the Kolinahr … that she never had. Instead of gazing at her with accusation, though, he'd reminded her that many fail and indicated that it wasn't a badge of shame. When pressed, he'd told her that he'd passed, but doubted whether he'd have the same success now that his wife had perished.

_It could all be revealed. _

So she waited, holding her breath.

"Why do you say that?" asked Shran.

"I have my reasons," he responded.

"Cryptic like a Vulcan," said Shran.

"Perhaps," said Skon.

And she blew out a long breath, relieved. Splashing cold water on her face, she collected her thoughts and reminded herself to thank her aide thoroughly when next she had the opportunity. Deep within her mind, she also reminded herself to double, maybe even triple, her meditation.

"If I can focus on it," she said, ruefully.

For the past few nights, rather than meditate, she'd welcomed her mate's embrace – his lips and tongue twisting and dancing against hers as their two fingers glided over each other's skin. Even now that idea made her tremble.

_Control._

She stared into the mirror again and then drove those notions, what she deemed were Jonathan's licentious thoughts, from her mind. Taking another long breath, she re-appeared in the small room as Shran, Gral, Skon and Tares turned their attention to her.

"What about the rest of the ambassadors – the ones in Starfleet Medical?" asked Shran. "Are we just supposed to wait for you to come back?"

T'Pol shook her head. "No, you should continue your work and request they join us."

Shran said, "Ki'ar is still settling the deal with his people. He could be here before you return."

"Then tell him how much he his help is appreciated and we will join you as soon as possible."

"What about the human ambassador?" asked Tares.

"He should be debriefed and then join us," said T'Pol.

"That guy is a ripkin," said Shran.

As they threw out more questions to her, as if hoping to settle everything once and for all, the Tellarite waddled up to her and lifted his eyes to hers.

"Are you sure?" he asked.

So many questions were wrapped up in the one, she thought: Sure that she wanted to go to Vulcan? Sure we wanted to go with Skon? Sure she wanted to fight for reparations? Sure she wanted to leave Archer – possibly never to see him again. And to each one, she had to admit she wasn't certain, but realized it was the only solution.

"I'm certain," she said.

Shran's antennae drooped and he cursed in Andorian under his breath. Gral stroked his beard and then replied.

"Very well. I'll lead the Council."

There were occasionally times T'Pol could see the benefit in hugs or other physical contact – to show affection and appreciation. If she wasn't Vulcan, she would reach down and either pat the Tellarite's head lovingly or circle her arms around his girth and squeeze him until he snorted. Because her emotions were too close to the surface, she instead felt a lump form in her throat.

"Good," she said, hoarsely. "We only have a few days to settle things. I've already begun debriefing Staron on the new responsibilities."

"Will he be able to join us?" asked Gral.

"He believes so. The Vulcan constitution is strong." Eyeing Shran, she continued, "And I hope you treat him with as much … make that more respect … than you've shown Skon or me."

The blue man rolled his eyes, a trait she was certain he'd picked up from Archer, but agreed quietly. With that, she welcomed everyone to sit back down and strategize how to bring the other ambassadors and aides, now alert in Starfleet Medical, into the fold.

-----

Archer opened the door to the apartment with the passcode he'd been given – the name of T'Pol's childhood sehlat, a completely crackable code and yet one that made the Vulcan even more endearing to him. On entry, he made a beeline to the heating unit and turned the knob down. T'Pol – a woman who was used to warm climes – occasionally jacked up the warmth a couple of notches. This, he decided, was a little hotter than usual.

"T'Pol?" he asked.

Winding from one room to another – the living room, dining room, kitchen – he eventually looked into his mind and was shocked at where she was especially given the early evening hour: in the bedroom. Immediately his heart started thumping and he entered to see her with the covers nestled around her – her shoulders, neck and face bare. The room lit only by candles -- typically only used for meditation. These candles, he knew, were lit for seduction.

"You were with Captain Vega today," she mentioned.

"I've been assigned to her ship."

"I know," said T'Pol. He could read the annoyance in her thoughts, but they vanished as quickly as they surfaced.

"I leave in a week," he said.

"I know."

Taking off his shoes and socks, ensuring they were out of the middle of the floor – a habit he'd had all his bachelor life and one he knew irritated (Vulcanly of course) T'Pol – he sat on the edge of the bed.

"The next two days is all we have," he whispered to her.

A long exhale left her mouth. "I know."

Scooting closer, he took his hand to her face and traced his knuckles down her cheek as she closed her eyes.

"I've been struggling all day," he said, "thinking about the two of us. Seems like we didn't have a lot of time together."

"I wanted more time as well," she said, opening her eyes slowly.

She slid further down on the bed until she laid flat, looking up at him. His body nearly followed, his eyes riveted to her lips, except that he knew he had something to say.

"I've been thinking about what happens next, T'Pol."

"Oh?"

"I feel like we should …." He paused gazing down into her eyes. "I think we should either decide to marry or …."

"Or?"

"I don't know," he said.

Despite wanting to press his mouth desperately to hers, he kept his distance. He whispered, "I don't know when I'll next see you."

"You'll return."

"I don't know when that will be," he said. More specifically, he didn't know _if _he would really return at all. The vessel he was on carried nuclear weapons – a newly crafted torpedo based on the splitting of the atom.

"You'll return," she said again.

Narrowing his eyes, he knew she could read his thoughts – all of them – and he could see hers as well. She clung dogmatically to the idea that he would return and they would settle all of this later.

"What if I ask you to marry me?"

She was silent.

"Marry me." Stretching out on the bed, his arm behind his head, he gave her a soft smile. "There's a Vulcan temple in Sausalito and we could--"

"Don't."

"What?" The smile faded.

"Don't. Both of us have … enjoyed our arrangement as-is. When you return, we can determine--"

"Look into my thoughts," he said.

"I know what's there," she said.

He frowned. "Is there anything ashal-veh, you think you'd learn about me when I return that you don't already know?"

That met with silence.

"I love you, T'Pol. I want to marry you. I know it's something that not just humans participate in, and I'm willing to go through whatever--"

"Why can't we continue as we are?"

"Because I'm ready to move on." He said, "Because I want to know that either I come back to you for a family or I don't. You asked me to wait … to allow us a courtship. I did. I can't wait any longer."

"You are putting me in a difficult situation."

He asked, "What aren't you ready for?"

She didn't have an answer, and so he closed his eyes to see into her mind. It led down one path to another – because he didn't want children.

"_I want them with you," he thought. "I've changed my mind, and you know that."_

"_We don't know if we could have them."_

"_Phlox indicated it was possible, and you know that, too."_

"_There isn't time before you leave."_

"_When I return--"_

_She thought, "But, you don't think you will."_

"_Does that matter?"_

"_What will change if I am your wife? Will there be more affection between us? Caring?"_

"_I know that you'll be mine, and I'll be yours."_

"_We are that already. Are we not?"_

"_Then why are you afraid to make it official?"_

"_I don't have fear. I am concerned you're rushing into--"_

"So, what if I am? There aren't any consequences. It should be easy – I love you, you love me. We're compatible, we share a bond, we're happy, we're --"

"Jonathan, why are you insisting we take the next step?"

Pushing himself up, he frowned. "Why are you pressuring us not to?"

He could hear the faucet drip and the clock tick across the room. There was a question to be asked, and although he thought he knew the answer, it escaped his mouth.

"Is it Skon?" he asked.

She shook her head, a sigh leaving her lips. "Of course not."

"Have I done something to --?"

"No."

"Then what is it?"

"I told you – I'm not ready."

"Why?" Sighing, he told her he'd been able to see into her mind before and she hadn't been opposed to the idea.

"I told you." As if the mood had been killed, she picked up the robe next to the bed and slipped it on.

"Why aren't you ready? What do you think you'll--"

"I'm not ready," she said more forcefully.

As he closed his eyes to see into her mind further on that issue, a steel door slammed shut and locked with no way to enter.

"Why won't you show me?" he asked.

The Vulcan left the bed marching toward the door – he knew she was irritated – so he took her arm and stared at her. A fire rushed to his fingers where their skin met. And once the heat met his hand it traveled up his arm and spread to his head and toes. The flame licked at his libido and instantly he felt like crushing his lips to hers.

"What's going on?" he asked.

"Let me go," she said.

He did, slowly, the heat still simmering his insides. The real reason he'd insisted marrying her came to his mind and it frightened him a little: she would belong to him and no other man could claim her. Red coated his eyes and with dementia, he realized he would fight for her, tearing a man apart with his bear hands and spilling his blood if necessary. He would slash Skon's chest open with a lyrpa, watching green ooze down his body as he crumpled to the ground. The gong that stood aloft in solitude on her mother's family's land would be crushed if necessary when rang it to claim what was his – T'Pol.

"Jonathan?" she asked.

Through clenched teeth the reason he wanted to marry. "I don't want another man to touch you," he said. The strain in his voice, the anger ripping through his timbre, scared him a little.

She looked concerned, too. "Why do you think--?"

Grabbing her arm, he dragged her back to the bed until she fell on it. "I want you to belong to me."

"I do," she said with confusion. "In as much--"

He cut her off with a savage kiss. And when they broke apart, he felt his fingers fumble for the knot in her robe. "Tell me."

"Tell you what?" she asked. Vulnerable, wide-eyed, she stared up at him with something like shock.

"Tell me you belong to me."

"I--"

"Tell me!"

"I'm yours," she said quietly, submissively.

Almost as if he didn't control his own actions, as if responding to an ancient voice that echoed inside calling him to action, he pinned her to the bed to show dominance. And for some reason, despite being stronger than him, he noticed she allowed it.

"I want you to taste like me," he said. His lips and tongue attacked her. "I want you to smell like me."

Mouth, teeth and tongue teased her relentlessly a barely audible word came from her mouth.

"Yes," she said to him. "I belong to you."

"You should bear my name, T'Pol," he said in her ear.

"Not yet."

Yanking at her hair, his mouth punished her with a kiss believing that after he took her, she would capitulate. Unbuckling his belt, he nodded his flesh searing with a sudden fire.

"I want you to take my name so no other man can claim you."

"No other man can claim me," she told him.

"If a man tries, I'll kill him."

The words shocked him, especially because he meant them. His heart pounded at the thought of killing Skon, almost delighting in the idea of tearing him apart. A gasp left her mouth, as if she was privy to his emotions through the bond. And yet, she didn't draw back, she attacked his mouth with ferocity.

When Jon was spent, he lifted his head and saw the clock – two hours had passed. Whatever the devil had gotten into him – the voice in his head telling him to show dominance to win her -- had vanished. T'Pol glowed angelic with her hair fanned around her face and her lips barely parted in nearly reached slumber. A frown crept over his face, rather than a satisfied smile. She hadn't capitulated and the recognition strangling his heart as if to tell him that she wasn't really his and indeed another man would take her.

At that, the Vulcan's eyes slipped open and she reached her fingers around his forearm, dragging him to bed.

"I will always be yours," she whispered.

And although he didn't necessarily believe it, he slept.

----

Shran puttered around the house wearing a black apron as Jhamel wore the harness that held their son, Shras. The little boy, still too wrinkly and young to notice much about the world, had figured out one important talent – moving his antennae. They bobbled about like his mothers' – blindly.

The baby cooed and Shran had to wonder if somehow the little tike had his mother's knack for reading minds. As he was about to ponder the question out loud, he heard his daughter's footsteps pound the stairs of their Victorian house with glee. When he poked his head out the kitchen door, he saw Tallah wearing a black outfit that Jhamel sewed for her introduction to Junior Imperial Guardsmen school on Andoria – the two thinking she'd go there one day. Although it wouldn't happen, at least not any time soon, his daughter loved the gear. With a beaming smile, the girl reached for her ice pick and brandished it, slicing the air with her weapon.

"Put away your toy," said Shran, loud enough so she could hear.

"I want to show the Pink Skin the moves Tares has taught me," she said.

Sighing, he went back to cutting fish when he heard the door chime. It made Shras cry gently.

"I'll get it!" yelled his daughter.

The first to arrive were Gral and Martog. Martog wore a human style flowered dress and ruby red lipstick, something that looked ridiculous on the pig-like woman, and yet it made Shran smile. As he walked out to greet them, she leaned over and patted Tallah on the head.

"I remember when I was her age – just learning to argue," she said.

"You were never that age," said Gral.

"And yet I'm younger than you."

"Not that you look it."

The two argued for a few more minutes and Shran couldn't blame the questioning eye his daughter gave as they did so, her antennae squirming in confusion. This wasn't the way he and Jhamel, who were also in love, behaved, but the blue man had come to understand this is how Tellarites always were, especially when they were fond of someone or trying to be respectful.

After pouring an Andorian ale for Gral and attempting to fix something that Martog called a cosmopolitan (which he substituted most of the ingredients with Andorian ale) the doorbell finally rang again. Tallah screamed that she'd get it, and excitedly threw it open.

"Pink skin!" she said.

"Hey, Tallah," he said.

The man picked her up with a small grunt as she showed her pick to him. Shran was about to call attention to his Pink Skin friend to be careful, when his eyes caught T'Pol. Something about her looked radiant, as if her skin glowed. Silently, he wondered whether life with the human agreed with her or whether she was using something as simple as a new moisturizer – a human product Jhamel swore by. Or maybe it was her makeup, he thought to himself, these days it seemed she took extra pains on splashing color on her cheeks, lips and eyes. Whatever it was, he had to admit she looked good.

And as he approached the two, he saw Archer put his daughter back on the ground and stepped in front of her slightly, as if blocking her from Shran's touch. It made the Andorian's antennae whirl with confusion. _That _behavior, he'd never seen from his human friend.

_Maybe I'm imagining it, _he thought.

"I can't believe you leave for Vulcan in only three days, Skinny," said Gral.

Shran noticed Archer even blocked the Tellarite from approaching her. The pig gave a small grunt and turned to Shran, eyes squinted.

"Neither can I," she said.

"You know you don't have to leave. The Council and I already suggested--"

Jhamel appeared from nowhere, turning her blind eyes to her husband as if to put an end to that argument. "Thy'lek, perhaps we should all eat dinner."

"I wanted to show the Pink Skin and Pig my office first."

"Could you do that later?" she asked, sweetly. "Dinner is almost ready."

Shran's head fell to his chest obediently and he watched his mate give Shras to T'Pol to hold. The Vulcan brought his offspring close and gazed at it with a twinkle in her eyes, and to Shran's delight and satisfaction – so did the Pink Skin. It gave the blue man hope that perhaps children weren't out of the question.

They gathered around the table, situated by Shran's wife in what she explained was a human ritual, and then brought some of the food to the table, including a bottle for T'Pol to feed Shras.

The Aenar leaned in and began speaking of Tallah's latest achievement, when Shran cut her off.

"So, you want children, Pink Skin?" asked Shran, ignoring Gral's comment about tasting better meals out of a trough.

"It's not out of the realm of possibility," said Archer.

Leaning forward the Andorian smiled, wondering if his friend had indeed taken his advice of impregnating the Vulcan. He was about to ask when Jhamel spoke up.

"Shran made the takig," she said, pointing to the fish tails.

From there, he and Gral discussed marriage and family rituals – Tellarites delivering litters of children in bundles of seven or less at a time. And Shran discussed Andorian marriages, which often consisted of four people, coupled. Although it seemed completely understandable to him, and natural, he found himself explaining how four Andorians could couple and was about to stomp off to a padd to show them how it would occur when his wife halted that conversation. The Aenar, he told himself, were never one to mate and tell.

During the conversation, Shran kept his eye on his friends – the Pink Skin and the Vulcan. In the past, he'd witnessed something happening between the two, but it was always met with embarrassment on the human's part and denial on the Vulcan's. This time even at his table, he noted, Archer had two fingers running down the neck of his mate and his attention seemed to be focused on her. Even watching the caress made Shran uncomfortable, and he had to acknowledge _that _was a feat.

When Jhamel volunteered to the clear the dishes, Shran encouraged the men to retreat to his office upstairs. It took a bit of convincing for Archer to join them, his eyes tuned like laser beams to his mate.

"She'll still be here when we get back," he said.

Crimson rose to the human's cheeks and he eventually agreed.

When Shran got to the top of the stairs, he piled into the office, opening a window complaining his wife liked clean air in the house, especially with the newborn, and then passed out cigars. He was pleased each of his friends took one and lit up immediately, Gral snorting at the pleasure.

The blue man topped off glasses of ale and plopped down in between his two friends, kicking his feet out and folding his hands behind his head.

"So, what's the deal with you and T'Pol?" asked Shran.

"What do you mean?"

Gral grunted, letting a plume of smoke leave his snout. "You two were acting like two grigs in a farlat tonight."

Archer narrowed his eyes, but didn't ask for clarification. Instead, he offered what Shran considered a lame excuse.

"She's leaving in a day and--"

The Andorian swallowed his ale whole and then turned to his friend, cutting him off. "And she'll be with her aide. Alone."

Gral joined in, "Skinny's aide worries me. The two are inseparable, from the same planet, speak the same language on an alien world ….. Martog, Tares and Jhamel, the women we know think he's handsome. And the gaze he eternally gives her--"

Shran eyed his human friend and smiled – he must've had enough liquor because rather than become angry and defend him as he was prone to do, he complained a little about what he deemed "his ever-present guest."

Archer said, "I've seen the way he looks at her. Believe me, I've had plenty of opportunities. He shows up before I get up and is often around until after I go to bed," said Archer. "But, I know she only feels friendship for him."

"So, you're all right with her going to Vulcan with him?" asked Shran.

"I don't have much of a choice," he said.

Shran said, "I've heard tales of ancient practices were Vulcans fight over their females. Have you thought about challenging him?"

Archer nodded his head in confirmation, as if he knew about this and that maybe it was even still allowed.

"Nearly every day," the human grumbled.

"Have you told her?" asked Shran.

"Yes."

"What did she say?" asked Gral.

"She said it's not necessary," he said.

Archer's eyes went dark and a frown appeared on his face. That was also an emotion he'd seen before – it was the mantle he wore when he was captain, one of self-assurance, defiance and action. On further inspection, it was more the visage his friend wore when Enterprise went into the Delphic Expanse -- menacing.

"Maybe you _should _challenge," said Shran. "Before they leave for Vulcan together."

Gral gave a low grunt. "Be careful, I've heard Vulcans have six times the strength of a Tellarite."

"I know," said Archer. And somehow Shran got the impression he really did, as if he'd fought a Vulcan before.

The Andorian said, "You should claim her before you go back to the front."

The fire in his eyes smoldered and he plunked down his drink. "It's not that easy."

"Do humans have some sort of custom that--?" began Shran.

"No. She doesn't want to get married."

At this news, the Andorian filled his glass full of ale again, ignoring the empty one Gral had in front of him.

"She denied you?" he asked.

"Yes."

Gral reached over for the bottle and poured some for himself. "Frebak."

The blue man didn't want to ask, but it needed to be questioned. "Do you still consider yourself a couple?"

Sighing, Archer said, "Yes, I mean we'd need a priest to separate the bond between us."

"Is that what she wants – to use a priest to separate you?" asked Shran.

"No. She likes the way things are now."

"Do you want to use a priest to separate you two?" asked Gral.

"No." Archer swallowed the ale whole and then shook his head.

Shran waved his blue hand in front of the Tellarite's face. "It's Skon isn't it? She wants him."

"She says it's not about him."

"Then?" asked Shran.

"I can't see her reasoning. I just know she isn't ready."

"Why is marriage important to you?" asked Gral. "If you two enjoy everything now, then--"

The human's eyes turned a little darker. "It just is."

"He's worried Skon will take T'Pol as a mate," said Shran.

Archer bristled, and for once the Andorian knew he had him dead to rights, so he poured another glass of ale, hoping to loosen the man's tongue even more. And after the Pink Skin threw down another belt, he eyed his glass and spoke to it.

"You know, I guess I kinda assumed she would want to marry me."

Shran hung his head to his chest and wondered what the Grendal had gotten into the Vulcan. He came up with theories, letting his mind trip down each idea until he'd almost exhausted it.

_Maybe she didn't really love him. Maybe she knew he would perish. Maybe she couldn't bear the pain of having him leave. Maybe she couldn't really bear the pain if something were to happen again. Maybe Skon really was an option._

T'Pol – in her own Vulcan way, Shran decided, cared about Archer – a lot. From where he sat, despite the looks she threw Skon, it appeared the Vulcan was at least smitten with the Pink Skin and he knew that Archer was madly in love with her. Not only was it written all over his face, it rang true in every interaction he had especially tonight. Thinking back, T'Pol hadn't acted anything but Vulcan – stoic.

_Yet, she didn't eschew Archer's attention. Confusing._

_But, they have a bond. That had to come from at least deep caring. Or maybe something else?_

Because Shran was unsure what to do, he playfully slugged his friend in the arm. "Women," he muttered under his breath.

Gral snorted in agreement.

"I can't believe you leave in only four days," said Shran.

During the rest of the conversation, his Earth friend was quiet, throwing down drinks as quickly as they were poured. Even the blue man knew it would be a difficult day for the human tomorrow when he awoke to the affects of everything he'd shoved down his throat.

---

Jhamel laid her infant on the couch, resting on his stomach. Right away, the little blue boy slept and the Aenar turned to her female companions.

"I already smell cigar smoke," she said, as if to complain.

Martog shoved more appetizers down her throat and snorted. "For some reason, and I can't understand why, Gral likes what humans call cigars. Filthy!"

Tares disagreed, "They're tasty."

"Phew! Gral smells like them for days until he bathes."

"Tellarites don't bathe daily?" asked Jhamel.

"Why would we do that? A waste of water and mud."

T'Pol silently reflected that Jonathan would also stink of the substance – his breath, his clothes and his hair wreaking with the stench. She silently mused about asking him to shower – a thought that led her mind astray, when the Andorian broke her concentration.

"So, are you and Jon thinking about making something permanent?" asked Tares.

"He recently moved into my abode," said T'Pol.

"I wasn't talking about that. I meant … what do Vulcans call yat-yig amaran?"

"Marriage," she said. "Kal'i'farr."

"So, anything happening on that front?" asked Tares. She'd managed to lounge on the couch next to Jhamel, picking her nails with the ice pick that she wore on her belt as Tallah watched interested in the technique.

"No," said T'Pol.

Jhamel knitted her brow and ducked her head innocently. "It seemed it was on his mind."

The three women and Tallah gazed at T'Pol expectantly and the Vulcan sighed.

"According to human marriage traditions, apparently the male asks the female. He broached that subject with me recently."

Martog squealed, "I love spring weddings!"

"However," corrected T'Pol, "the circumstances feel rushed."

"You've know him for more than ten years," said Tares. "Only a Vulcan would think that was rushed."

"Known him as a friend for ten years, yes. Known him as a mate – less than a year."

"Why don't you want to marry him? Aren't you interested?" asked Martog. Before T'Pol could answer, she stuffed another bit of food into her mouth. "Do you find him unattractive?"

"It has nothing to do with his aesthetic appeal."

"He's got a nice ass," said Tares. As T'Pol silently scolded her, despite a placid face, Tares brought Tallah into her lap. "Well, he does."

"He physique is not in question," said T'Pol.

Jhamel pointed upstairs and suggested Tallah get to bed, a notion the girl didn't like, but followed out of respect. As the youngster headed upstairs, Tares pointed to the Vulcan.

"Doesn't he satisfy you in your mating bed?" asked Tares.

"That is not in question either," said T'Pol, her vertebrae stiffening at the question.

"You don't need to tell us anything you don't want to," said Jhamel. "But, it's just … you seem happy."

T'Pol felt a frown prickle at her mouth and almost gave way to it, before closing her eyes to imagine away the emotion. Planting both feet firmly on the floor, she eventually opened her eyes and gazed at the Aenar. This woman, she mused, always was able to read the smallest nuances – this particular knowledge she wanted to keep from revealing itself was perplexing and complex.

By denying Jonathan, she would retain her identity as a Vulcan and diffuse the emotion that bombarded her; refusing him would enable her freedom to act independently.

A trembling hand touched her temple, and she shook her head: it wasn't really about her mate's emotions; she was protecting herself from being devastated if something were to happen to him. She couldn't stand thinking he was dead again and she couldn't handle the idea that this time it was more likely.

This time, nuclear weapons were involved.

_So, it is better to distance myself now?_

Jhamel reached over and touched the Vulcan, a sad smile passing over her lips. "My friend, don't you think it is better to have loved deeply and affectionately now in case something happens to him?"

After scrutinizing the Aenar for a few minutes, she determined the woman hadn't been reading her thoughts, simply giving an opinion based on her intuition.

Tares asked, "Does it have anything to do with your aide? He's hot."

"Of course not."

Martog gave a snort. "I remember before I was married, men pursued me. Gral, Fek, Tor …. It made me feel appreciated."

"Have you mated with Skon yet?" asked Tares.

Offended, T'Pol shook her head. "No."

"Maybe you should. You could compare the two as lovers and decide which one you wanted." Tares leaned over, grabbing a piece of fish – an after meal appetizer. "You could decide between emotion and logic."

Jhamel waved away any other mention of the discussion, filling tea mugs for the others (except Tares who she provided ale to) and discussed her children and Shran's home improvement project, which included his interest in building a place to practice his weaponry.

The idea Tares had planted into her mind – mating – took hold and seemed it wouldn't let go. It took her back to last night and the dominance Jonathan showed her; it was a tact he had not taken ever. He'd never made her pant, claiming she was his. An eyebrow rose of its own volition.

_His behavior was definitely peculiar._

And as her eyebrow flattened, she also thought his behavior welled the lust within her, fanning flames only he could stoke. Raw. Unadulterated.

Oddly, as if she'd called to him, he appeared downstairs, his eyes turning to dark pools. It caused the breath to escape her lungs quickly. Before she realized it, the two of them were claiming their coats, exchanging pleasantries with perplexed hosts and hurrying outside. Once out in the slight chill of the evening as she headed to drive, he spun her around to press his lips to hers. It was difficult to lead him to the craft and more difficult to keep her focus on piloting as he attempted to seduce her until they reached home.

Even as she struggled from his grasp, his mouth sought hers out – in the parking garage, in the elevator and walking to their apartment. Finally in front, as she opened the door, he swung her into his arms and threw open the door. As he threw her to the couch they'd just purchased, an idea struck her.

_He acts like he's in Pon Farr._

TBC


	40. Chapter 40

A/N: I can't believe I've hit 40 chapters!!

Insane Viola Guy, thanks for your comments. Here's the tricky part – I agree with you. It's weird to have nuclear weapons … seems like there's more treacherous weapons with their inventions. And here's the unfortunate thing – it's canon! In Balance of Terror they refer to some desperate measures taken by the humans with nuclear weapons, which help stop the Romulans. So, I'm going to keep going with it and ask for some major suspension of disbelief.

Everyone, thanks for continuing to write in, including someone who tried to guess what happens; I'm ashamed at how close she came.

-----

T'Pol woke up with a headache – and associated it with leaving for Vulcan in less than six hours, leaving her mate. Sitting up momentarily, she looked at the empty bag on the floor and then at one folded robe next to it. Not only had she not packed, she hadn't prepared her clothes for he journey. Worse, she was still in bed and planned on staying there for another few minutes, if not longer. Resting back, eyes roaming to her sleeping lover, she felt a ghostly smile threaten to spread across her mouth – Jonathan was slumbering with the bed covers barely covering his naked hips.

_He's handsome._

Closing her eyes, she mused that her concentration, thanks to Jonathan, had been completely wrecked for the past two days and instead of further planning to how to repay Coridan, she'd spent the majority of her time entertaining him – going to dinner, talking, taking long walks …. Of course these activities, she thought, usually led to other things.

Mating.

_His thoughts continue to distract me. _

At first, she believed his thoughts were brought on by Pon Farr, but he ensured that wasn't the case and his thoughts mirrored those sentiments.

_Besides, he's not Vulcan._

The fragments left of Surak's katra were not enough to send Jonathan through the madness of scorching flames and the tiny remnants of Arev, Syrran, couldn't stoke an inferno to mate. The Science Directorate – accepting that a Vulcan had melded with a human – deemed there would not be adverse lasting affects. Priests weighed in with the same conclusion, promising the human would only remember odds and ends.

_And yet the desire emanates from him._

The source was unclear other than his overwhelming jealousy of Skon. When she merely thought of her aide, Jonathan would narrow his eyes and curse under his breath. He'd promised to fight him and had fantasies about killing him – using the lyrpa to slit his belly until green blood spilled to the ground or taking an ancient sling to his throat to strangle him until all life choked from the Vulcan's body. Thinking of such violence was unlike him.

She'd brought his emotions to his attention – the ever-present lust and the incessant jealousy. But at every discussion, he waved away her concerns by explaining it was normal.

_Perhaps in human mating, males are driven to prove the females belong to them._

Jonathan had mentioned more than a few times she belonged to him.

As T'Pol hoped to be able to focus on the matter, his eyes creaked open and he greeted her with a slight smile.

"Hello," he said.

"Hello," she said. Her finger traced his cheekbone and then migrated to his mouth as his grin widened.

"Did you sleep well?" she asked.

"Like a rock. You?" he asked.

"Very well."

Shivering she felt his lips press against hers and welcomed them at first. When his mouth opened to deepen it, his tongue coaxing hers, she withdrew by sitting up.

"I haven't packed," she said.

"You still have a few hours." His fingers – in the sign of Vulcan affection -- lazily traced her arm.

"I've been thinking … perhaps you should see a doctor, you seem …."

He waited.

She said, "I've known you for many years and have never seen this side of you."

"We've never been intimate until recently." His eyebrows knitted together. "I thought we already had this conversation."

"We have, but it bears mentioning again. And, you have only become … _driven_ this past week."

"I got the impression you were enjoying it."

That notion made her flatten her lips; she had been. "Still. Perhaps you are ailing in some way."

"I don't feel sick." His smile turning lopsided, he sat up with her. "In fact, I feel great."

Teeth tugged at her earlobe, in just the spot she liked, and with significant effort she moved away from him.

He whispered, "It's normal for humans to feel this way before leaving each other."

"Is it?" she asked.

"Sure." Scooting toward her, he leaned over and took her lips again.

"I have to prepare for my journey."

"Pack later," he said, seductively.

"There's no more time."

"I want you."

And she wanted him, too, but instead of giving in, she shook her head. "You cajoled me into mating several times last night."

"Cajoled? I don't recall using much effort," he said. Flicking his tongue along her ear, he whispered, "Besides two isn't several."

"We have spent many times the past few days mating."

"So?" "_You belong to me."_

Incredulous, she stiffened. "I belong to no one. We are not married."

"Not this again."

A heavy sigh left his lips and in what appeared like defiance, he slipped into the bathroom and turned on the shower. After a few minutes, she walked inside to continue their conversation, talking through the shower curtain.

"Stop toying with my emotions, T'Pol," he said, before she could begin.

"Toying?"

"You heard me."

"I'm not toying with your emotions." And for the first time in a considerable while, she felt anger build within.

"The hell you are. I can feel it." Just as she was about to set him straight, he continued. "I guess in a few hours you won't have to worry about me wanting to touch you or asking you to be my wife. I just hope Skon makes a more suitable mate for you."

That stung and she opened the shower curtain to give him what for, unable to keep her emotions at bay.

"Your jealousy is causing you to act foolishly," she said.

"Well, wouldn't be the first time I acted foolish – like starting a relationship with you."

A sharp intake of breath prevented her from reacting right away. "It appears I have been equally imprudent."

"Oh?" he asked, turning the shower off. "Just think, it won't be a problem for much longer."

The two glared at each other for a few minutes. Eventually, her eyes meandered over his dripping form and instantly she felt his lips on hers. For only a split second, she found the action shocking and then immediately afterward heard her voice encourage him.

"Yes," she said.

"You're mine."

Her back smacked against the bathroom wall, almost knocking her breath out as his lips attacked her ferociously -- her neck, her ears and mouth. Every kiss he gave her was accompanied by a confession. He wanted to marry her, but he wasn't sure why he was _so_ insistent on it. Even ticked off as he was, he _needed_ her … had to have her. Claiming her as his – for some unknown reason – was vital.

With each word he uttered, she reflected on her own perplexing thoughts. She wasn't opposed to marriage, especially with Jonathan, and the idea that he may perish hadn't _really_ precluded her from becoming his wife. Maybe, she wondered, remaining single would help her keep her options open -- not that she had any intent on having another man. And anger also welled within her too, and yet she was equally desperate to have him.

"Your mind is madness; it stirs this heat within you. You should see a doctor."

"I will, after I drop you off," he whispered to her.

"Jonathan--"

"Later."

The two slid down onto the tile floor of the bathroom and despite the worry that overcame T'Pol, she put it aside – allowing logic to be ripped from her -- and kissed her mate with equal aplomb.

-------

Archer rubbed the mirror with a towel, cleaning it from the fog of T'Pol's shower. As it cleared, he startled at his reflection and his fingers rushed over a large bruise on his neck, near his collarbone.

"Hell of a hickey," he said to himself. _At least my uniform will cover it up._

His razor, he preferred using the old fashion kind because it gave him a smoother face, swept up his throat when he began to replay the morning in his mind. He and T'Pol had few arguments as a couple, certainly none as vicious as the morning's disagreement. Jon hated getting riled up and disliked arguing with T'Pol. And yet this time, there was a part of him that enjoyed it – it fueled him as if preparing him for battle.

_To win her._

The idea caused him to miss his mark, leaving a nick behind.

"Damnit," he said. Placing a washcloth under the cold water, he eventually raised it to his neck to staunch the blood flow.

_She's right, I need to see a doctor._

Thoughts of destroying Skon wouldn't leave his mind, so much so that he and T'Pol had agreed that that she would ask her aide to come later to avoid seeing him. Spying her aide may cause him to throw a punch … or worse.

_I could kill him._

Dropping the cloth, he looked at his blood before taking the razor to finish his shave. Even as his hand dragged the instrument across his face, listening to the scrape, he couldn't get T'Pol out of his mind: her black, logician orbs staring at him, turning cocoa-colored as lust filled them and her bronze, nubile body spread out on their bed to seduce him. Desire sweated from his pores and a low rumbling noise, almost drowning out his razor and her shower, echoed deep within his mind.

_She's mine._

"Stop it," he told himself.

Images of her, her pouted mouth whispering profanities in Vulcan to him – words so tantalizing that he could already taste his arousal, came to an end as he closed to eyes to block out the insanity.

_It's getting worse._

With a sigh, he finished shaving, splashed cold water onto his face (welcoming the sting of reality) and then ran a towel to remove the rest of the shaving cream. As he looked in the mirror again, he saw T'Pol draped in a robe stepping from the shower. Immediately he turned to her and the heat that boiled his blood started cooking again. A chaste kiss turned more vicious as his teeth nabbed her mouth – the heat between their lips traveled to his tongue and head nearly causing him to black out.

_Yes!_

"Again?" she asked.

She separated them and for an instant he felt the cool temperature that his heart regulated flow through his body. Gathering his thoughts, he shook his head.

"No." _Yes._

When his eyes finally caught hers, her gaze showed mercy and she displayed her fingers for him to touch in the Vulcan kiss. Fingers touched and fire sparked again.

"Maybe you should stay," he said. His fingers broke away from hers and stroked her throat, enjoying the sizzle stinging his fingers.

"I cannot."

"Maybe," he said, his voice growing hoarse, "it's not me who's ill. Maybe it's you."

She moved from his touch and immediately, and he felt his teeth clench at the loss of contact. "No," she said. "Jonathan, it's your thoughts. I can sense it."

_There's fire when I touch or kiss her. Or am I imagining it? _

And then her soothing, mathematical voice asked, "Is it that you want me to stay with you until you determine what ails you?"

"When is the Council expecting you?"

"In a month."

_Just enough time for her to get there and argue her case. _

"Nah," he said. " I'll be fine."

An eyebrow poked up and he reassured her by grasping his shoulder as he used to do when she reported to him more than a year ago, ignoring the heat at his fingertips.

"I'll be _fine_," he said again.

So, T'Pol turned on her heel, changed into her robes and finished packing all the while he stayed out of the room – reading a book on the sofa with Porthos. Keeping his mind busy distracted wanton thoughts.

A few hours later, T'Pol emerged in rust-colored robes – the ones she'd worn on Enterprise – ready for travel. Helping her with her bag, he loaded it into their craft and then drove to the station trying not to glance at her and shooing away any thoughts of making out in the car.

Once at the station, he parked the vehicle and retrieved her luggage. She fussed over the details of the abode for the few days he would spend in it and then switched the conversation, promising to contact him frequently. Nodding his head, he agreed with everything and then dragged her into a kiss – one he knew she didn't want to do in public – as the flames tickled his mouth and tongue. The moment they separated was the instant Skon approached and Jon clenched his fists into tight balls watching the Vulcan.

"I thought you would arrive later," said Jon. He couldn't keep the sneer off his face.

"I wanted to ensure I left myself enough time to--" said Skon.

"You'll see her for a few months. Don't you think that's enough?" asked Jon.

"Jonathan--" said T'Pol.

And unusual for Skon, the man's eyes darkened. "I think that is an adequate amount of time."

Jon closed in on the Vulcan, but T'Pol reached her hand around his wrist and because of the amount of pressure she used, his attention went back to her – it was just enough time for Skon to move into the shuttle, avoiding the challenge Jon was about to call out.

"You will see a doctor tomorrow?" she asked.

"Yes," he said.

"Good," she said. "Contact me as soon as you have the results."

Then biting the side of his cheek, he let a hand drift over her cheek to cup it as a familiar sizzle crept along his elbow to his shoulder.

"I'm sure it's nothing," he said.

She pressed her face into his palm and he leaned down so that his forehead touched hers. Fire spread to his skull, forcing a pant from his mouth.

"I love you," he said.

"I care for you as well. Return to me safely."

Their lips touched again, this time initiated by her – a soft caress. Before either could turn more sentimental, she vanished into the gray shuttle and the door closed behind her.

Jon had felt loss before – missing someone. Margaret Mullin's declination of his marriage proposal, for example, met with tears on his way home as the rain trickled down his face and soaked his clothing. The emotion erupted from making plans for his life, putting all his eggs in one basket – envisioning a home for the two of them and children -- and then having those dreams crushed. Margaret had wanted to stay in touch, but he'd never been a man to continue on in a relationship after feeling his ego implode.

Such emptiness lay there then _and_ now.

_I wish she would've married me._

His pride nagged at him like an old woman, tightening his lip and willing him not to hurt. Little good it did.

While an announcement was made, giving their shuttle the go ahead to launch, Jon felt his eyes turn glassy and a lump form in his throat. Eyes followed the flight path of the shuttle streaming across the sky and into the sun until eventually it faded from view.

_Goodbye._

------

With the remainder of the week, Jon packed and took care of the apartment to ensure it would still be in good shape when T'Pol arrived. Hoshi and Malcolm had agreed to look in on the place and on Porthos. Although he wanted his beagle with him on this trip, he thought it would mean more for his dog to keep T'Pol company when she returned. Selfishly, he hoped it would remind her of their commitment to each other, one that he questioned more and more.

He also visited the doctor, but wasn't surprised at the results. He'd been in perfect physical health -- his liver, one kidney and internal organs were in excellent shape. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, and when Dr. Amanda Stiles questioned him about his reasons for coming, he tried to explain in the most polite of ways; a grin curled around her face anyway and she accused him of being worrying for needlessly.

The reason he hadn't been shocked by the news that he was fine was -- with T'Pol gone the want that overcame him was nearly gone. Sure, he still had fantasies about her, sometimes waking up to the thought she was kissing him, but they weren't as vivid or as distracting. Perhaps, he wondered, he'd excised those demons when she'd left, but he'd correct himself almost right away – the jealousy was still there and the fear that Skon would take what was his.

And although he felt better, his skin still itched as if uncomfortable. He noticed other women more these days. He'd always _noticed _them and quite liked the female form, but now his eyes would follow women as they walked down the street, even peering over his shoulder to admire their curves. Perversely, he'd usually focus on the women who had dark hair, brown eyes, a slim build and about T'Pol's height, sometimes even imagining it was the Vulcan in a tight sweater-dress or whatever other garment caught his attention. At the end of his leering gaze, a voice in his head – he wasn't sure if it was his or T'Pol's – would bring him back to decorum.

The day before leaving, Shran and Gral took him for a drink to a bar that they had frequented with Ki'ar. Though Archer had never heard the name of the place, he knew the area of town and because of it knew the place had to be a tad seedy.

When he walked into the door, smoke and a fog machine clouded the majority of the room. By the number of men in the place and seeing a small stage in the center of this club, Jon knew it had to be a strip joint. Thinking back to the sign on the door, "Pirate's Booty" he realized how aptly it was named; he'd previously wondered it was a pirate theme bar. As he waved his hand in front of him to clear the thick soup in front of him, he heard a voice call out.

"Over here!" said Shran. "You're late, you almost missed the show."

The human headed toward the voice and finally caught sight of Shran and Gral. When he sat down, he produced a slight frown to them.

"You wanted to meet at a strip club?"

"Gral thought you could use a cheering up and we decided this was the place," said Shran, puffing on a cigar. "We already ordered you something." Pointing at a goblet, he added, "Drink up."

"What is it?" asked Jon. Leaning over he recoiled at the smell.

"Treasure trove. We picked the drink that seemed to have the longest list of ingredients. We figured you could use it."

Gral snorted. "When Tellarites go into battle, we often enjoy the dancing of beautiful women, a good argument and soaks in a mudbath."

Shran said, "We skip the dancing in my world and get straight to the mating. In fact, sometimes there's a week-long--"

"I think we get the picture," said Jon.

Antennae whirled as he mentioned, "We also figured you could use this because of your troubles."

"What troubles?" asked Jon.

"The ones you went to see Dr. Stiles about. On Andoria we call that tyla-tora santipk."

"How the hell do you know what I talked to my doctor about?"

"Amanda Stiles and Jhamel are friends. They talk."

"I thought the information I shared with my doctor was private!"

"She's still mad at you, Pink Skin – even since you turned her down. Don't make a doctor angry." The Andorian smiled. "Don't worry, _santipk_ happens to all Andorians. When we reach middle age, as you are, we go through a phase where we are constantly looking to mate – with anything or anyone."

Jon already had his head in his hands, hoping he could sink into the chair, fading from existence and avoid the rest of this conversation. Unfortunately, the mere hiding of his face hadn't made anything disappear.

Gral agreed. "Even Tellarite men who are past their prime get anxious. When I reached that age, I decided to start spending my money to distract me. I ended up with a shiny vehicle and a crater-sized mudpool. Maybe _you_ should buy something."

A frown cascaded over Shran's face, something Archer could see as the use of the fog machine died down. He said, "You're not getting any ideas about that captain you'll be serving with are you? She would get tyla-tora with you."

Jon sighed loudly. "Captain Vega and I are friends."

"Bah," said the Andorian.

"Has T'Pol contacted you yet?" asked Gral.

Archer said, "We talked for a bit a couple of days ago."

"Not every day?" asked Shran.

"Well, I mean, she doesn't need to – we share a bond. I know everything that's going on. She just entered the Andromeda galaxy, and she and Skon have been comparing notes on how to approach the request to repay Coridan right now."

Jon didn't miss the glances Shran and Gral traded.

"Yeah, I'm sure she's just busy," said Gral. "Probably why she's only talked with you once in a few days."

Shran said, " Archer, never trust a woman."

"You trust Jhamel, don't you?" he asked.

"Yes, but she's my wife. And she's not sitting at home with some thaan who looks nearly half my age." The blue man complained, "You should've challenged Skon while you had the chance."

"T'Pol wouldn't want that."

"Well, I guess it doesn't matter any more," said Shran.

Despite the noxious fumes in front of him, he grabbed his drink and sipped at it. "I suppose not."

"Maybe since you're not married to her, you should – as humans say - play in the field. Maybe bed your captain friend. Who knows, maybe you'll fall in love with her afterward."

A frown cascaded over Archer's lips—there were too many items to correct in the Andorian's sentence he didn't know where to start. "You just don't give up, do you?"

The music cued and Gral have a tiny squeal. "It's starting!"

Archer was about to push himself from the chair and make an excuse to leave early, but couldn't quite muster the incredulity to do so. Truth be told, much of what his friends teased him about was true – he had been desperate in a way.

_Maybe it _is _a mid-life crisis._

As a dark-haired woman, average height with a slim build, sauntered onto the stage, Archer decided he could stay just a little while as he pressed the goblet of Treasure Trove to his mouth to drown out the voice telling him to leave. It took several Treasure Troves to quiet that voice, and once those drinks had been consumed, warmth filled him – so warm -- and he felt himself relax and enjoy it all – his friends, the alcohol, the cigar and the women. Red rushed to his cheeks – not with embarrassment, though – and a smile twisted onto his lips as the fire inside him turned hotter still, sending a few trickles of sweat down his face.

"Seems like you're having a good time," said Gral.

_I suppose I am._

"You know, you're almost as much fun as Ki'ar," said Shran, giving the human a sharp slap on the back.

"At least Archer doesn't wave his credits in the air or try to join the dancers onstage," said Gral.

The men laughed together, and Archer realized he'd miss the camaraderie he had with these aliens, his buddies. Silently, he wondered if perhaps that's why he wanted to stay as his eyes rested on the dancer sauntering over to him, chocolate pools staring back at him. The woman had T'Pol's mouth – fleshy, probably just as tantalizing to kiss -- and high cheekbones, ones that he wanted to run his knuckles lightly against.

He averted his eyes and stared at his goblet thinking maybe he'd had way too much to drink.

"Do you want me to dance for you?" the woman in front of him asked.

He lifted his head and heard himself pant.

_"You're mine!"_ he heard as if a scream at the base of his skull, enough for him to nearly spill his drink.

"No thanks," he said, producing a nervous smile. And as she walked away, he let his eyes follow.

It took a few minutes for Archer to realize Shran had said something to him and when he eventually turned his head to acknowledge the Andorian, the man shook his head.

"You should definitely play in the field."

-------

The shuttle that T'Pol and Skon had rented was gray and small – just enough for the two of them with two rooms that barely could hold a bed, a common bathroom and a center area for navigation that had two seats and one large window across the front. Although it was an older style shuttle, it had automatic pilot and could plot the most expedient way to get to Vulcan.

Getting there as fast as possible would still take a month, even in this speedy craft named "The Viking."

T'Pol listened to Skon speak, talking about the meeting they would have with Soval, T'Pol and Kovak, but had trouble focusing on his words. Instead, she heard her own heartbeat pound in her ears, keeping time with the music at the club she knew Jonathan attended.

_A woman dancing in front of him, teasing him – raven hair flying and dark eyes trained on him._

T'Pol's fingers curled, her nails nearly piercing her own skin and she shook her head.

_I have only been gone a short while and already he entertains the idea of another woman. He's mine!_

Hot, like an iron, the emotion seared and caused her to flush and sweat. Apparently it concerned Skon because he quieted and the end of the chatter caused her to look in his direction.

"Ambassador?" he asked.

"Yes?"

"Are you well?"

She pushed a trembling hand to her hair and cursed silently Jonathan's emotions, struggling to maintain control. "I am. Jonathan has had some … emotional difficulty lately which has affected me."

"Humans seem to have great difficulty with emotions," he said. Then tentatively, an eyebrow snuck toward his forehead. "Especially Admiral Archer."

Even her eyebrow quivered. There were many emotional humans she'd met. Jonathan was rarely logical, not in a sense she understood – though the outcomes usually resulted favorably – but he was definitely not the most emotional man she'd come across; that distinction was given to Trip. And with the thought of him, a frown nearly cascaded over her face.

"Perhaps when we are on Vulcan, you can meditate and free your mind of such entanglements," said Skon.

Widening her eyes, she again smelled the air and caught his scent – the smell of a Vulcan male lightly sweating. It was the smell of sand drifting into an ancient temple and incense rising from swaying pots. The aroma made her lick her lips and let the shaking hand fall to her side.

"Are you suggesting some retreat?" she asked.

"Once our meeting with the Vulcan High Command, or what remains of that organization, has concluded, the two of us can stroll the capitol together. I was raised there." He paused for a moment. "It would be an honor to show you the city."

With closed eyes, T'Pol reached back into her mind and remembered a time when she melded with T'Pau, the of them sharing thoughts. An awkward boy – one tall and lanky for his age – seemed to tag behind, pestering her.

A gangly boy of five ran behind T'Pau on a field and the girl, larger at twelve, ran ahead claiming she had been eager to research the death of a stray k'lat – a small furry creature with small fangs and black eyes. When she gazed at it, she turned behind her to see her younger brother, still new to the suppression of emotion. Like an infant, water reached his eyes and he turned his face away.

"Death is logical," said T'Pau. "All creatures die. Mother explained that to you when our foremother perished."

"I know," said the boy. Instead of agreeing and gazing at the dead animal, he wiped his nose with his sleeve, crying quietly.

"Skon, you cling to the skirts of Mother's robes too tightly."

Instead of answering, the little boy pouted and ran into the family home as T'Pau watched after him and then turned to the creature on the ground to practice forensics, studying the creature in death.

There was sometimes in his demeanor something that reminded T'Pol of the boy that lingered from T'Pau memories. Still tall and lanky, his nature was reserved and timid. He had a poet's soul, and knew he wrote poetry, although he never shared it with anyone. The man was able to play the lyre, could compute mathematics easily and had been working on completing dissecting the words of Surak, from the Kir'Shara. The man had many talents, and she had a soft spot for him.

Gazing into his eyes, they seemed hypnotic with the lack of pigmentation, shining gray. As if he knew the mystical power he had over her, he closed the gap between them.

"You have grown quiet. Did my suggestion of seeking solace together offend you?" he asked.

Reaching into the air, as if to push a lock of hair from her face, he clasped her wavering hand and stared into her eyes.

"No," she said quietly. "Taking a short break with you does not offend me."

"Then what does it do, T'Pol?" he asked, his eyes moving to her hand.

A gasp left her lips and she found herself snatching her hand away. The moment she did, peace spread over his face and he backed away.

"You have not been yourself for at least a week. If it is the emotions of the admiral, maybe you can purge them through meditation. I could assist you ….?"

An uneasy head bobbed, nodding to his request and she found herself making excuses to escape, roaming the halls as her head spun, sinking into her bed and finally wrapping her arms around her legs as she wondered what exactly lay ahead.

TBC


	41. Chapter 41

A/N: Asearcher and I had an interesting discussion. Thanks for the information about where you believe Vulcan is and that perhaps I was incorrect when I wrote that T'Pol and Skon were moving through the Andromeda galaxy.

----

Archer arrived ahead of the launching to welcome the crew to the ship – the Panama, not as the captain, but as what he used to consider a stuffy, irritating dignitary. Starfleet space dock hadn't changed much since he first took Enterprise out, it had low lighting and had been painted in beige. And just like when Enterprise left for the first time, he was up in the decks looking down on a group of people waiting for a speech to be made.

Smiling, he walked up to Mel and beamed a little broader; she'd cut her hair to shoulder length looking more radiant than ever. She stuck out her hand, but he brushed past it to draw her into a hug – a tight squeeze.

"Mel," he said. "You look great."

"You saw me four days ago," she complained, squirming out of his hold.

Giving a brief chuckle, he let her go as he gave her a wink. "You ready to do this?"

"Launch the ship?"

"I used to get nervous when we were leaving space dock, like my helmsman would accidentally smack a pylon."

A grin popped onto her face. "I heard about your first time to take the pilot's test."

Archer swung his head to her, his eyebrows shooting toward his head. "Oh?"

"I also heard that your academy teacher knew you could pass so let you try again once you'd already dented the shuttle."

A laugh chortled out when a few of her team members began to cue up. Travis was among them, having earned Lt. Commander for his fast action while on the Potomac when he took over as captain. Also in the line was a portly man with an overextended grin that curled literally from one ear to the other: Dr. Phlox. Holding a small bag, of what he called herbs, he enthusiastically took his place near Travis.

A brunette woman with a lot of gumption and know-how suddenly appeared in line, someone Archer was sure had accepted a captain's position by now working on the newest Starfleet technology: Commander Hess. She still had a bun sitting precariously on her head, kept in place with only two pins, and still had a lot of sass. On seeing her old captain, she gave him a brief hug before she poked fun of him for actually accepting an admiralty.

A few new faces showed up in the line as well – Engisn T'Var, a Vulcan communications expert who, reportedly, could speak as many languages as Hoshi. Everything about the woman was angular – sharp nose, pointed chin, almond-shaped brown eyes and a bowl-shaped hairdo. Instead of wearing a catsuit with patches as T'Pol wore, this woman allowed the baggy uniform of Starfleet to hang off her. Stoically, she took her place next to the doctor.

A thick-necked man with a crewcut marched into line next: Lt. Simon Levy. With a strong New York City accent, claiming he was from Brooklyn, he gleefully started yammering about the number of new weapons the Panama would be equipped with, leaving out – Archer guffawed – the nuclear weapons in the cargo bay.

Finally, Gardner stepped onto the lectern and the room broke out into applause. Pointing a finger to the view screen behind him, several ships came into view – because of the static on the screen, it was difficult to tell exactly what they were. With a single blow, from one of them though, the ship had only static and then the screen turned black. With that, the lights were brought up.

"That's our enemy," said Gardner. "We don't really know what they look like. Reports have varied from black ships that fade into existence to vessels that have painted reapers on their bellies. Whatever they are, we know they're dangerous."

Names appeared on the screen – ships that had been destroyed with the Columbia at the head of the line. Archer bowed his head at reading it.

Gardner said, "We've confirmed these ships were all destroyed at the hands of our enemy. Latest count is more than 25 Starfleet vessels, 42 Andorian, 15 Vulcan and 21 Tellarite. This doesn't include the number of shuttles, cargo vessels and commercial transports that have been obliterated."

With disgust the admiral turned off the monitor. "Today, we're launching the Panama, the Shenandoah and the Constantinople."

All eyes turned to the upper decks and for the first time Archer really looked at the other humans and aliens lined up next to them, understanding they were officers on those ships.

Gardner said, "We owe these people our lives."

Thunderous applause reverberated throughout the hall, reaching Archer's ears and like the first time he launched a vessel, he tried not to shy away from it.

Matt Gardner then said, "The Vulcans, Andorians and Tellarites are all sending more vessels as well to end this war quickly. Its for our posterity they do – our way of life and our children's'."

With a pip noise, alerting the crews to board their vessels, they all headed to their individual crafts, Mel leading the way as the admiral followed at the end. When they reached the bridge of the vessel, Jon was about to retreat to the situation room directly adjoined when Captain Vega called out.

She said, "Stay on the Bridge, Admiral. It'd be fun to have you here."

With a sly smile, he agreed and made his way behind her chair to get one of the best views in the house. T'Var headed straight to her station, while Travis slid into his seat and stroked his controls gently. Hess manned the station on the Bridge, her eyes eager as she fidgeted and Levy cracked his knuckles eager to place his fingers on the armory controls, something that reminded Archer of Malcolm.

"Everyone ready?" asked Mel.

"Aye," came from everyone and Archer turned to her with a grin.

"Well, Captain, you gonna take this thing out?" he asked.

"You heard the man," said Mel to Travis.

And soon Travis gave an affirmative and the ship moved gracefully from it's mooring and headed out into space at impulse, flanked by the other ships announced – the Shenandoah and the Constantinople.

Each team member reported all systems functioning normally, and once they reached the edge of their system, Archer headed to the Situation Room with Arthur Westing, who volunteered to serve again. When he got in the room and was about to talk with the young man at his side, he realized Mel was already in the room and talking.

"So," she said. "You're our dignitary. I'm supposed to invite you to dinner."

He said, smiling, "Gee, you make it sound so inviting."

"Chef is preparing meatloaf."

His grin turned lopsided and she giggled. She said, "I know what you like, Admiral."

"Hmmm," he found himself saying. Drowning out the lecherous voice that rumbled inside his brain – the one that spoke with wild abandoned these days to ignore rules, regulations and good manners -- he nodded. "What time?"

"Seventeen hundred," she said.

"Sounds good."

"But, let's make it informal, okay? I'd forgotten how much our uniforms itched."

_You could always take your uniform off, _he thought. The idea narrowed his eyes.

"Admiral?"

"Uhm, sure," he said.

With a crooked smile, she turned and walked out the door and Archer found himself staring at the portal even after she left. Arthur cleared his throat eventually grabbing his attention.

"Right," said Jon, trying to sound official. And yet his eyes drifted to the door again, as his mind attempted to recall the visage of the captain of this vessel.

The rest of the day went quickly, and Archer spent most of his day communicating information to the other two Starfleet vessels that left with them. Silently, he mused that providing orders to other humans was a lot easier – no one bickered, challenged his authority or told him it was "illogical." Instead, he received an affirmation with every command and some eagerness to perform duties.

_A nice change._

When 1700 hours approached, Jon made an exit back to his cabin and fumbled through his closet to find something that seemed appropriate – not too casual and not dressy. After a few minutes, he landed on a pair of slacks and a shirt with three buttons near the neck. He threw them on, combed his hair – which he noted needed a haircut – and made his way to the galley to have dinner with Mel.

Each woman he passed gave him a slight smile and despite him ordering his head to stay fixed ahead, he turned to watch them saunter away with admiration. After peering over his shoulder at nearly every woman he came across, he mentally chastised himself for going through middle age.

When he reached the Captain's Mess, his grin turned more pronounced. Mel was already in the room, staring out the window at the stars. Eyes trailed down her form as he walked behind her.

"Glad to be back out here?" he asked.

She turned around, wearing a red, sleeveless tunic, black slacks and crimson lipstick. "I would be under different circumstances."

For some reason, he offered her the chair and pushed her in before slipping into the one next to her and her brow crinkled.

"What's gotten into you?" she asked.

"What do you mean?"

"You seem …."

He waited.

She shook her head. "You just … you look good and you're acting kinda peppy. I expected you to be …."

"What?" he asked.

"I don't know – moping."

"Moping? About what?"

"T'Pol. Leaving Earth. You didn't seem that enthusiastic when I told you I'd asked for you to be assigned to my ship."

He looked down at the empty space in front of him. "I'm just trying to make the best of everything."

More almost came out of his mouth when the steward brought their food out. A pile of mashed potatoes towered over two thick slices of beef with tomato sauce on them and green beans lay at the meat's side. With a smile Archer licked his lips.

"I hope this is Chef Thomas' recipe," he said.

"Wouldn't dream of serving you anything else, Jon," said Mel.

Immediately, he dug into his meal and he felt Mel watching as he did so. Mouthful of white, creamy spuds, he raised his eyebrows to her, hoping to solicit a response.

"You were about to say something," she said.

"Huh?" he managed, gulping down his food.

"Best of what situation?" she asked. "Being on a vessel carrying nuclear weapons in a war?"

Sighing, Archer put down his fork. "Yeah."

"Is there something else?" she asked.

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Sure, I'm sure."

_No, I'm not._ There was the fact that his libido had been tied up in knots for the past week, maybe more, as he thought about T'Pol and only recently started waxing sentimental about other women. Currently, his bondmate – someone he considered his soulmate – denied a more permanent relationship with him and instead toured the galaxy with a man half his age. A man of her own species and a handsome one, or so Martog and Jhamel thought.

Instead of conveying all that to her, he instead gave her a forced smile and leaned over to gulp the water next to him.

Mel shook her head and then leaned her elbows onto the table. "Jon, you look like you had your heart dragged through your throat and I've seen you stare after nearly every good looking crew woman who passes by … and don't think I haven't noticed."

He guffawed. "I'm not staring."

"What happened between you and Ambassador T'Pol? You two break up?"

"No, everything's fine."

"Jon--"

"Everything's fine," he said.

"Jon, level with me. We're friends." She paused. "Last time we spoke you'd moved in with her and seemed to be interested in making a deeper commitment."

His eyes darkened and he stabbed a piece of meat. "Leave it alone."

With that, the two friends ate the rest of their meal talking only shop as he diverted her from making their conversation personal. At the end, Archer made a hasty retreat – mumbling some excuse about reports – and headed out.

When he got to his cabin, he made a beeline for the mirror. Mel was right, his eyes were a little bloodshot, dark encircled them, and a frown twisted itself onto his lips. Worse, he could feel sweat beginning to drip down his back. Removing his shirt he grimaced at the rings under the armpits of the shirt and the trace amounts of perspiration on the front and back. Throwing the shirt into the laundry chute, he got ready for bed.

Laying out, he closed his eyes and tried to put his personal problems aside.

_The sands of Vulcan blew hot, whipping against a giant gong. Large men with lyrpas flanked T'Pol as she entered the plaza. He struggled to breathe the thin air in the noon day soon, his skin frying – already red and angry – as he picked up a weapon: a sling. His shirt had been tossed off at the inception of the challenge and he wait for the man he was pitted against, practicing the weapon to get the feel for it._

_Skon, fully clothed and limber, picked his sling and immediately hurled it in the air with grace and skill. _

_A gong sounded, one that muffled under the beating of his heart, and before Archer could wield his weapon, he'd been felled. Confusion sprang on his face as he saw a sling wrapped around his ankles and as he lurched forward to retrieve his weapon when he saw that Skon had it already in his hands._

"_Give up, human."_

"_Worla!" said Archer, spitting the word in the Vulcan language. "Never." _

_Pushing himself up, entangled, he threw a fist at the Vulcan and watched blood trickle down from his mouth. Archer ignored the throbbing in his hand; he guessed his knuckles hurt worse than Skon's mouth did. And then Skon's open hand smacked him in the mouth and nose, a snap interrupted Jon's heartbeat and caused Archer to fall to the ground and begin to loose consciousness. _

"_Kroikah!"_

Sitting up, he began to pant and realized the sweating was getting worse. Not only that, but he felt keyed up and ready to expend some energy. After slipping into a workout outfit, he looked at the comm, struck with the idea of ordering the Panama to Vulcan.

Shaking his head, he made his way to the gym and ran … for hours.

-----

They'd been out in the black for four days, each day exactly as the previous one: chats about their strategy, small course corrections for the shuttle to ensure they arrived on Vulcan and welcome silence.

When T'Pol awoke today, though, she found her skin was hot – sweaty to the touch. Pushing herself wearily from her small bunk, she made her way to a mirror to gaze at her reflection. Her hair was damp, clinging to her face, and her skin glowed a deep green.

_I must have the climate controls set too high._

Stopping in front of the thermostat, she nudged the buttons until cool air was released from the vent and sighed in relief as it hit her body. Sweat turned to goose bumps and she stretched at the breeze, giving her energy after her brief sleep. Slipping on her robes, she headed back out to the common area and saw Skon sitting in the pilot's seat. For some reason, she decided to sit next to him, before showering.

"I hope your slumber was pleasant," he said.

"It was, thank you." Giving an eyebrow to her fellow Vulcan, she said, "You have picked up Earth customs quickly."

"Their pleasantries seem sometimes appropriate."

The woman almost let a smile onto her face, but instead quietly agreed.

"I have checked all systems, it appears everything is as it should be," he said.

"Excellent. I was going to prepare for the day. You mentioned … guided meditation. I believe I may find that beneficial – Jonathan's emotions grow more cumbersome." Pausing only for a minute, she turned in his direction. "That is, if you are willing."

"Of course."

"Then perhaps we can begin in an hour?" she asked.

"As you wish," he said.

T'Pol sauntered into the bathroom and despite it being so miniscule – barely enough room for even her to fit under the shower head – she luxuriated in the water cascading over her body and enjoyed massaging soap into her skin. When the supply cut off, something they did on small ships to conserve water, she was surprised; the supply ran at least thirty minutes long. And even at her grimiest, after coming home from a difficult mission like when she was captured on Coridan and had spent days there, the longest shower she'd ever taken was precisely fifteen minutes. Any more, she always reasoned, would be a waste of water.

A towel swept over her body and then folded neatly around her torso to her thigh – an Earth custom she'd grown accustomed to – and she picked up the remainder of her clothing and walked through the ship back to her bedroom.

Curiously, she stopped where Skon was and waited for him to turn around. When he did, she saw his face blushed green and he lowered his eyes for a moment.

"Do you need something, Ambassador?" he asked.

As she collected herself, wondering exactly why she'd stopped, she decided to make up a small excuse. "You may shower now, if you like."

Eventually his gaze met hers and she gasped at what was there – his eyes burned, gray as they were – and he nodded his head.

"Of course," he said, his voice hoarse.

Slowly, he pushed himself from the chair and moved toward her. Rooted to the floor she stayed still and awaited him to approach her, her eyes stuck to his and his to hers.

"I will meet you in your room in an hour," he said.

Internally, she smiled, before walking away to her room and attempted to drown out the sound of Jonathan – his ire rising. His temper grew more difficult to ignore – fueled by a jog at his gym, an activity he'd devoted himself to for the past four days, ever since he'd been on the Panama. This wasn't the time for an argument about his jealousy, so instead, she slipped into her catsuit – a garment that made roaming around the ship easier – and waited for Skon to assist her with meditation.

When he reached her cabin, his hair was still wet and T'Pol could smell his sweat again.

_Maybe the environmental controls were too hot for him as well. _

Without a word, he stripped from his outer robe and flung it onto the edge of the bed and then sat down there, next to her.

"We could meld," he said. "The meditation would be easier."

As her lips were about to agree, she felt a small voice within her beckon not to – Jonathan's voice. Carefully, she shook her head, asking for only guided meditation.

"Wh'ltri?" he asked.

"Yes," she said.

And as she closed her eyes, his voice gently reminded her of the effortlessness of meditation as he instructed her to let her mind grow silent and her head, neck and limbs float. The moment she felt the inner-peace of meditation, a thought came from nowhere nearly causing her to gasp.

_The winds of Vulcan blew hot, clanging against a giant gong – the one in her mother's courtyard. Distant cousins carried the lyrpa and flanked her in protection. In the center, nearest the gong was Jonathan – his shirt tossed to the ground and his skin red and freckled as if burned. Every breath he took looked pained and a frown had cascaded across his face. She knew his thoughts and she recoiled at them. _

"_You choose that I challenge him?" he thought, a sling held awkwardly in his hand._

_Skon wore the vestige of her suitor, a red sash wrapped around his middle as Archer wore the white to denote her champion – the color for her chosen victor. _

_When the gong sounded, Skon made the first move, nimbly, and brought Archer to his feet._

"_Give up, human," he said. Although the blood fever had taken him, he seemed composed._

"_Worla!" said Archer. "Never." _

_Jon pushed himself up and punched Skon drawing blood to his lip. And then Skon's open hand, posed in the position of power, smacked him in the mouth and nose. He fell instantly and his eyes began to drift close. _

"_Kroikah!" screamed T'Pol at the top of her lungs._

When she opened her eyes, Skon stared at her – his eyes burning.

"Why did you ask me to stop?" he asked.

"It was in my mind. I envisioned Vulcan. It … it called to me."

"Called?" he asked.

Shivering, she looked at the thermostat and realized the temperature was already quite hot. Silently, she wondered when exactly she managed to turn up the heat and wrapped her hands over her arms as she attempted to explain the vision, including how he and Jonathan fought for her.

"When my wife entered Pon Farr she dreamt that Vulcan called to her." He lowered his voice and said, "Perhaps you have entered your mating cycle."

"No."

"You perspire even in the heat of your room, your eyes burn and you dream of Vulcan."

Doggedly, she denied it. "Impossible."

"You are of child bearing years, why is it impossible?"

"I would know," she said, haughtily. Her teeth chattered as she said it.

"Hmmmm," he said, his voice ringing with amusement. "When a Vulcan enters his … or her … cycle, reason and logic are far from mind. You may have entered it without knowing." A hand drifted over her neck as if to indicate he was stirred by her cycle.

"Absurd," she said.

"Then allow me to get the scanner to settle this."

----

Archer waited in the situation room for what felt like hours, waiting to hear the next move from Admiral Gardner. By the silence, Jon was starting to worry the plan might be to amass as many ships as they could and strike Romulus itself. Thinking back on the speech Matt gave, he thought it might just be true. The United forces were getting desperate, asking ships to carrying nukes, something sinister could only await.

And yet, he spent the majority of his time thinking not about impending doom or his orders, but about sex. Somewhere, he'd heard the adage that men thought about sex every seven minutes. The notion was a bit ridiculous; although he'd watch women occasionally or be struck by an idea in the most solemn of moments, he hardly thought about sex non-stop. He'd never timed himself, but couldn't believe every seven minutes a man's libido demanded attention.

Until now.

Tapping his fingers nervously on the console in front of him, he tried to purge a bevy of images from his head. Fantasies about various women leapt to mind – women from his past and women even on the ship. He thought of Margaret Mullin, her red hair streaming down her bare shoulders as she kissed him wildly.

_No, brown hair to her shoulders like T'Pol._

Every woman he called to his mind mysteriously transformed into T'Pol. Even a petite blonde, Ensign Sylvia Clark, who he frequently saw in the gym in a skimpy workout outfit as she shadow boxed became T'Pol. T'Var, who although Vulcan looked nothing like T'Pol had been in his thoughts and had magically became T'Pol kissing him, both in the Vulcan and human style. Even Melanie Vega, her ruby lips opening for his tongue, eventually turned into T'Pol.

It wasn't just the constant fantasies or envisioning every woman was T'Pol, he started having small black outs where he couldn't remember exactly what was happening. Two days ago, he'd been alone with Captain Vega in the turbolift. He'd remembered entering and leaving, but nothing else. Today, he'd stepped behind Travis on the Bridge and told him something, but for the life of him he couldn't recall what he'd said.

_This can't be part of the mid-life crisis._

Nudging the button in front of him, he contacted Phlox and scheduled an appointment with him tomorrow. When that was settled, he relaxed a little and glided out onto the Bridge. He needed to pace somewhere else or do something else.

"Hey, Admiral. Did you need something?" asked Captain Vega.

His fingers wiggled and he nearly brought his hand to cup her cheek, a licentious remark tickling his mind.

"No," he said, grinning stupidly. "I'm just going to get a little exercise. I'm feeling … antsy."

"Haven't gotten any further orders?"

"Didn't I tell you?" he asked.

"No."

"Oh," he said, having sworn he did. "Well, we should receive something more in the next few days. Until then, Gardner wants us to wait right here."

Before he did something he'd regret, he dragged his feet across the threshold into the lift to go to his cabin and change.

---

Skon waved the scanner over her once more and shook his head to the same results. "T'Pol, how many times do you need me or this scanner to tell you that you are in Pon Farr to believe it?"

A fist unconsciously balled itself and she flung it against her own leg. "I am not!"

"You are."

_How could I be so foolish?! How could I deny my mate?!_

And then she thought back to the past few weeks. Things between her and Jonathan definitely had heated up – their rendezvous' were more lurid and hungry than in the first few weeks of their dating. He tore at her mouth, neck and ears with his teeth and she returned it.

_Why wouldn't I decide to stay with Jonathan?_

An idea struck her – one that had she been able to tap logic that would've – surely – occurred to her. In her building fever, her body and mind had been calling out to him for him to claim it. A Vulcan male would dominate the female, showing clear ownership until the woman submitted; it required patience from the male and strength—both of the mind and of the body. She'd wanted her mate to claim her, restraining her if he must to do so, ravishing her mind. A human, Jonathan, she reasoned, would not be so domineering or savage.

_Why did I resist marriage?  
_

"It will take more than two weeks for us to reach Vulcan," he whispered. "Perhaps--"

His hand displayed two fingers and he gently nudged them toward her. Staring at her fingers, she pondered what the touch of a Vulcan would feel like against her skin. Tolaris had lit a fire in belly and caused electricity to shoot through her, bouncing off her fingers.

Hesitantly, she pressed her fingers together and leaned them out for him to take. The moment their hands met, lighting. A pant worked from her mouth and her eyes closed at the feel. He huffed with the same intensity, emotion so obviously flowing from his mind. And then his fingers glided along her arm and then wandered to her neck, spreading into the Vulcan greeting. Tingles, the hair at her neck rising and goose bumps rippling along her skin, as his hand touched her jaw, then and then ears.

T'Pol mimicked those motions, opening her eyes, letting her hands and fingers wander his skin. The swelling in her stomach grew and the fire he had ignited began to burn her insides. She leaned over and pressed her mouth to his.

----

Melanie was at dinner when she received a call from her very confused helmsman. Apparently in the course of the past four hours, the admiral had ordered the Panama to Vulcan and then changed his mind. Twice. Captain Vega would've written it off as a joke had Travis not sounded so concerned at the admiral's tone of voice and produced evidence through the intercom – a recording of the admiral.

Leaving her chicken and stuffing, she asked T'Var where the admiral was located and then shot off in the direction of his cabin, fuming silently.

She'd asked him several days ago what the hell was wrong with him, but like a stubborn mule he'd refused to tell her. It hadn't taken a rocket scientist to know that things with T'Pol had gone south and that the man had been harboring a broken heart because of it. She'd summed up it's why he'd spent so much time in the gym lately.

The minute she jabbed her thumb on at his chime, she heard a commotion and was about to let herself in when the door swished open revealing a thin man in only his running shorts, dripping with sweat. Suddenly, she became nervous.

"Sorry, I ah …."

"Want to come in?" he asked.

"Sure," she said. "I mean, yes."

Mel had seen her friend's body before, like when she'd cared for him back on the planet near Romulus, but then he'd been so embarrassed that she'd forced her hands only to work over the areas they need to without admiring his chest or muscles. It was hard to ignore those regions now.

The man may've been in his fifties, but he was cut – firm in all the right areas – and good looking. Without intending, her eyes drifted to the tiniest bit of hipbone showing and she felt a little weak in the knees, almost causing the question to fly from her thoughts. Almost.

"Admiral--"

"You're in my cabin, I think you can call me Jon," he said, as a correction.

"Travis contacted me with some confusion about orders you gave him and then changed."

"What orders?"

"Mayweather said you ordered us to Vulcan."

"He must be mistaken."

She sighed. "He said you did so twice and then belayed each order."

"No."

Eyes closing, she shook her head. "Jon, it's been recorded into the ship's logs, including your voice." She paused as he furrow his brow. "Have we received orders from Starfleet? Is that why you asked him to go to Vulcan and then changed those orders?"

"My voice is in the logs?" he asked.

Without further ado, she called up the information on his terminal and then replayed his own voice providing the orders, the sound of it causing the hair on her arms to stand on edge. Jon's voice was strained, unsure and yet angry.

Dumbfounded he remained silent after she ended the playing of the log.

She sighed. "Listen, I know you've been--"

Instead of finishing her sentence about his personal life, she instantly was cut off by his kiss. Another followed. And then another. With each one, she felt her knees continue to weaken possibly, she wondered, because their bodies at some point had pressed against each other. His hands dove under her hair and he reached to get her closer still, hungrily attacking her lips. The second his hand slid along her butt, she pushed him away even as she wanted him to continue.

"I report to you on this mission," she said. "And as long as I wear this uniform--"

But, she didn't finish, instead she found herself in his arms again and this time initiated a kiss.

"I used to care that you reported to me, but I can't stop thinking about you," he said.

His tongue interrupted any response she wanted to give.

"I remember dreaming about you in Decon, rubbing gel over your naked skin," he said.

Although the Decon chamber had been removed from newer ships like the Panama, she remembered older ones had that feature and had often wondered how crewmen managed to keep their minds on business as they rubbed cream onto each other's skin. Word around Starfleet was that was an easy way to pick up the opposite sex.

The timber in his voice was low and it made her slide her hand along his rear end as well and she smiled as it caused him to moan. So, she ran her fingers along his stomach and chest, reveling in touching him and he seemed to enjoy it as well -- his lips darting up her neck and suckling her earlobe.

Things were heating up too quickly because she found herself at the edge of his bed as he unzipped her jumpsuit.

_This is crazy! Sure, I want him, but he's my admiral._

One hand guided inside to grab at her waist and the other brought her more fully against him – so close she could feel his heartbeat as well as his already peaked excitement.

"I wanted you so desperately," he whispered.

And when his lips crashed against hers, he spoke a name into her open throat – one that wasn't hers. T'Pol.

Just as he was about to push her onto the bed, she wiggled from his grasp.

"T'Pol?!" she asked, already zipping up her uniform.

"Huh?" he asked.

When she gazed into his eyes, he seemed equally confused and then perplexity migrated toward shame – his face red and his eyes rooting to the floor.

"Put me in the brig," he said.

"What?"

"I tried to violate you. Put me in the brig."

She was about to argue that it wouldn't be violation if she willingly gave herself to him, which is precisely what she was about to do. But, he kept talking.

"I'm your commanding officer, and I clearly disregarded regulations. You should put me in the brig."

Looking at him, he shivered a little, his face red – with what seemed leftover lust, embarrassment and maybe even fever. His eyes darted from left to right unfocused and despite the fact they weren't trying to jump into each other's clothes, he still panted as if breathless.

"Are you all right?"

Bearing his teeth, looming over her, he closed the space between them until she felt herself backed into a wall.

"No! I'm telling you if you don't put me in the brig, I'll come onto you again."

_T__hat wouldn't be such a bad thing. Maybe he didn't mean to say T'Pol's name?_

She was about to tell him that though they were friends, she still had feelings for him, when he told her something that truly frightened her.

"I probably did tell Travis to head to Vulcan; I've been blacking out almost since we've left." Stepping up toward her, looming over her, he said, "If you don't put me in the brig, I'll come onto someone else. I've been so angry lately, I could even assault someone – maybe even you, Mel."

She gasped.

"I'm not fit for command," he said, his lips nearly on hers.

Nervously, her hand reached for her weapon, drawing it as she stepped away.

-----

Although T'Pol didn't consider herself an expert at kissing, she had – at least Jonathan had told her – been proficient at it. It tickled her to hear him say that because she believed he had great skill at the art himself. Kissing him made her stomach feel as if a shuttle she had occupied had taken a direct hit and fell several meters before righting itself. Letting their tongues mingle brought almost the same euphoria as when she injected herself with trellium.

The opposite was true of Skon. When she pressed her lips to his, he held them still – unsure what to do – and then reared back.

"What was that?" he asked.

"A kiss."

"Human?"

"Yes."

"Why did you attempt to do that?"

T'Pol knitted her brows. "I don't know."

"Your tongue attempted to invade my mouth. Humans use their tongues as well?"

"Yes."

"Peculiar. Let us refrain from doing so again."

When he leaned forward to attempt to place his fingers along her neck and ears again, she felt the hunger burn again and realized Jonathan was caught up in her fire still … and was attempting to stave the yearning with someone onboard his ship. Instead of her heart beating, her blood boiling and asking for relief, she felt an overpowering anger rise, choking her throat with bile. Cold, she felt a sneer pass over her lips as she called to the mind the woman that her mate was attempting to disrobe -- a woman she'd been jealous of before.

"Captain Vega?" she asked.

"What?" asked Skon.

_Jonathan is attempting to seduce another woman. Surely, he must know that only I can soothe his fire._

Skon stood, although T'Pol lost track of his movements. She could only feel her breath stutter and her fingers pressing into her own flesh as if to crush another woman. The image in Jonathan's mind was terrible -- his hand darted down Captain Vega's waist, holding pink flesh before stripping her of the blue jumpsuit all crewmen wore. Ruby lips pressed over her mate's, encouraging him to mate. Just as he was about to push her to the bed, she heard him call her name - T'Pol - as if he was seducingher instead.

The idea brought madness.

_"Stop it!" _she yelled to Jonathan. The chaos invaded her brain, and although she sensed his presence, she couldn't be sure that he'd stopped. "When I see her again, I will scratch her eyes out," she said.

"Pardon?" asked Skon.

"Set a course to intercept the Panama." Thanks to the bond she shared with Jonathan, she gave the coordinates.

"You are going to attempt to find Admiral Archer?"

"Yes."

"Ambassador," he said. And then he softened. "T'Pol, it is futile. If the scanner has registered your fever, you are too far along to attempt to seek his assistance. You will die in the madness, your blood boiling. I have been through it myself."

Even now, she panted, her lips dying to attempt to kiss again, her body undulating with pleasure.

"Give me a sedative and head toward the Panama." _I will not allow my mate to bed another, even if he calls my name as he does so._

"You are deranged," he said.

His hand snuck its way along her shoulder and she knew in an instant he would perform the neck pinch. Because Vulcan women are faster, she was able to dodge the motion and push him to the ground.

"Then so be it, but you will obey me!"

"I will not allow you to die, T'Pol."

"Stop it! It is not your choice to make."

"If you bedlam had not claimed you--"

"Skon, I would never choose you. If I continue, I would be using you. I would mate wit hyou thinking of him and his lips on mine. He is my bondmate." She felt reason tickle her insides and she used that moment. "If the situation was reversed, you would attempt to return to your mate."

"No, I would bow to reason."

"I know you. You would try everything you could to get to her in time, to take her. Allow me the same right. I burn for him and I know he burns for me as well."

Skon's face gave way to almost a frown.

"Please?" she asked.

Quickly, as if the man knew it was best to get it over with, he dug into the medical bag at his side and then produced a shot into T'Pol's leg – a sedative. As she closed her eyes, she heard near anger in his voice.

"I can honor your request, but cannot abide by your death. It lacks logic. If you are within death's grasp, I will save your life however I can."

TBC


	42. Chapter 42

A/N: Night's Darkness – we're always on the same page! Everyone else – thank you!!

-----

Shran scratched his white hair, bending one of his antennae in the process and hurled a frown at the door as he marched into the hospital room of Staron. This wasn't something he was looking forward to, and as he threw the door open the pit of his stomach lurched and flipped. The Vulcan was sitting up, his eyes on the door, as if expecting the visit. Already there was an air of superiority.

_This Vulcan is nothing like T'Pol._

"Ambassador," said Staron.

Shran nodded, trying to keep a sneer from actually reaching his face in vain. The man's tone sounded especially snotty, like the Vulcan had a kapig stuck up his torax.

"Where is Ambassador Gral? I expected you both to be here," said Staron.

"Hold your vagon, Staron, he'll be along. He's parking the flitter."

As Shran was about to draw a breath and ask how the food in the hospital was to prolong actual discussion, Staron started talking.

"Very well, I shall discuss this matter with you. I understand Ambassador Neville Simon is awake. I recommend we invite him and--"

"That tarpig?! Simon is who got you into this mess."

"Simon is the ambassador to Earth. I survived, and the idea to establish peace had merit. I am not certain an Andorian would understand."

Elation spread over the Andorian's features when Gral, just walking through the door, huffed at the information so that Shran didn't have to retract his blade and threaten the Vulcan. The Tellarite crossed his arms and wrinkled his snout to show his displeasure.

"Simon is a fool!" he said. "I refuse to deal with him."

"As the ambassador to Vulcan--"

Shran said, "You're not the ambassador, _Vulcan_, and you're not in charge of this council. I'd rather we go to Pelletier – the prime minister – and ask for a representative. If the humans send us Simon … then it's their arepec."

Staron narrowed his eyes, showing what the Andorian decided was anger.

"Ambassador Shran, I do not believe I am the leader of the Council. If I were I _never_ would have--"

Gral growled. "I never really liked you – you were always a pain in the torak to Skinny … T'Pol." With a slight turn of his head, his eyes shot to Shran's. "Come on, Blue. It's useless to stay here."

"As the representative--" started Staron.

Gral headed out the door and Shran followed. When the door swung shut, the blue man spun to his friend a grin cascading across his face. The victory of the moment evaporated and the Andorian began to wonder about future dealings with the Vulcans. A smirk on his face, a lopsided smile failing to humility, he leaned in.

"You know I hate that guy, but--" said Shran.

Gral interrupted, "We're teaching him a lesson – _we_ are the ones in control. We can return later and settle with him."

"Huh?"

"I've raised a litter of children. Sometimes you have to prove you're in control for them to respect you. Staron is more egotistical than Skinny or Skon – we need to show him we're in charge."

Antennae wiggled and a smile formed over his blue mouth. "We have a saying on Andorian, 'to be a thaan you have to have the stiffest antennae.'"

Gral snorted. "Tellarites say – 'to be a leader you have to be the one who bears your teeth and argues first.'"

"So, how long do we wait out here?" asked Shran.

"Let's go get something to eat and drink … and then we'll deal with him. I can bide my time entertaining myself. We may not be able to outwait a Vulcan, but we can always do other things while he's stuck in his hospital room."

"I like the way you think, my friend."

-----

Mel felt a bead of sweat trickle down her temple and she pointed her weapon at Archer's chest, trying – and failing – to steady her breath. The admiral was larger than she by a foot, and could easily take her in a fight. What made her tremble more was the man in front of her didn't resemble her friend, but a man clearly at the edge of his rope – panting for sex.

"Back away, Admiral," she said.

The words weren't said as harsh as she'd intended them to come out, and yet he stepped back as he huffed for air.

"You want me to put you in the Brig," she said, "but, I think Sickbay is the better location for you."

"Mel--"

Captain Vega watched his face flush – just as red as when he passionately kissed her. Licking her lips, she remembered that it was indeed _passionate_; his lips felt like silk and the stubble of his beard gently scraped the chin and cheek. And he attached to her lips as if he were desperately in love with her, groaning into her open throat and clutching her body as he exchanged tongues.

_That_ look was in his eye again.

His foot slid forward by centimeters.

"I'm not sure Sickbay is where I should be sent," he said, softly.

Another foot nudged forward and she stared at him – the look in his eyes was one of pure seduction. Although she'd seen some handsome men in her time, she'd never seen any that dripped with sex – so blatant, primal. Bare chested, wearing only skimpy shorts, he was the epitome of desire and she let her eyes wander over his muscled body, admiring it. Even though she was scared, she wanted him. Desperately. Silently she mused whether that's what frightened her.

"I'm not sending you to the Brig," she said.

He took another step until he loomed over her. "Oh?"

Cursing under her breath, she tilted her head up and felt his lips slide over hers again and the soft scraping of his five o'clock shadow.

_It's too bad this wasn't meant to be._

And then she fired.

"Sorry, Jon."

----

Skon slipped behind the controls after propping T'Pol into the seat next to him. Hearing her pant made him tremble slightly. It was a well-known fact that Vulcan men could sometimes be sparked into the heat of Pon Farr when around a single woman trapped in its fire. Unconsciously his eyes turned to her and he bit his lower lip to gain control.

_Concentrate! _he commanded.

The pheromones that Vulcan women emitted during Pon Farr were captivating, alluring – calling to the most primal nature of the Vulcan male. It reminded him of reading of stories of the ancient rite of battle – to fight over a mate.

Hand trembling as he touched the steering nodule, he realized he would fight for T'Pol if she wanted it. And then he remembered the words she spoke, before begging to have a sedative.

_I would never choose you_.

Skon was a follower of Surak – a logician where control held steady at the center of his beliefs. And yet … he admired the balance between emotion and logic – something that T'Pol uniquely seemed to possess. Not vile like the votosh katur, she logical while warm and caring – giving into compassion, the most noble of human emotions.

It hurt, if he were to admit to emotion, that she had chosen the human over himself. With a raised brow, he realized that many of the times he'd entered her abode were based on excuses. He'd enjoyed spending time with her, and – he realized – he'd been attempting to court her … to win her emotions so that he could be the benefactor of her love.

_Love._

A hand nearly stretched out to caress her hair, but stopped short and then clenched.

_Vulcans do not love._

It was an intriguing idea, though. Closing his eyes, he searched his memory. He had a fondness for his parents and sister – more than respect. He'd even had a fondness for a small creature that had climbed into his window when he was a boy – a sand-colored reptile than reminded him of an Earth lizard.

_Maybe that is love._

He had such a fondness for T'Pol and for his departed wife.

_I miss her._

He'd met his wife as most Vulcans did, when he was merely seven years old in front of the sanctuary where he was learning how to control his emotions. They were left for a few minutes while their parents talked with the Vulcan priest who would share their thoughts. Taller than him by several centimeters, she stared down at him.

"_You have funny eyes," she said._

"_You are tall and gangly and have crooked teeth."_

It was just enough time for him to decide he'd dislike sharing his katra with this person. When the priest bent over to touch their minds, he'd felt disdain at the idea, imagining this disgusting girl – T'Mara – sneering at him.

Ten years later they met again at a celebration. Her youngest brother had passed the kaswan ritual and her parents had invited family, which included his. As he reached for a skewer, enjoying his solitude, a woman sauntered next to him. Something about her seemed familiar – sandy brown hair, dark chocolate eyes and a thin nose. And yet, she didn't seem as gangly as the young girl he once saw and her teeth were now straight; she seemed now to have developed into a beautiful Vulcan woman.

Staring down at her, now at least ten centimeters taller than she, he offered her a plate and then two began talking. It amazed him, as they spoke, how much in common the two had. She was studying to become a mathematician in hopes of working at the Science Directorate and he was interested in possibly becoming a teacher, like his father before him. Soon, four hours passed – seemingly like only minutes – and while they conversed, his mind buzzed and hummed: the bond between them.

It amazed and delighted him that their relationship only improved. Although neither had entered Pon Farr, the time most Vulcans headed into marriage, they asked a priest to wed them. They'd lived together only five years, before she contracted an illness and perished.

Opening his eyes, he looked at T'Pol. After being wed for so long to another woman and enduring the pain that accompanied her illness – even throwing himself into a healing trance to help save her – he found it difficult he could have such fondness for another woman again. In a way, he wondered if it marred the memory of his wife to think of T'Pol this way.

As if the ambassador could hear his thoughts, she shivered and then awoke.

"More," she said.

She obviously meant sedative, although her chaos-ed mind couldn't speak the words.

"T'Pol, the medical kit that came with this vessel only has five more doses. It is not enough to sedate you for--"

"More!"

Quickly his fingers found the hypo and loaded it. Restraining a sigh, he shot it into her neck and watched as her eyes began to gain focus and eventually with satisfaction drift closed.

Through his latest calculations, and that's precisely what he did well, they would reach the Panama in approximately three days. With only five doses left, something it seemed she needed every four hours, there was no way they could make it in time. It's not just that, by the trembling she did even in her sleep, he knew her blood was boiling with the fever of Pon Farr.

-----

Mel carried Archer using the fireman technique – draped over her shoulder – and by some miracle didn't run into anyone on the way to Sickbay. Good news -- she hadn't worked out an excuse to explain why the admiral was out cold, stunned no less, and slumped over nearly naked except for the skimpy running shorts that he wore.

The moment she hit Sickbay, she begin to feel immediately relieved as Phlox met her at the door, an uncharacteristic frown spreading across his face, to help carry Jon to a biobed.

"Restrain him," she said.

The doctor raised both eyebrows, but did as she said, seemingly biding his time until he heard an explanation.

"Something's wrong with him," she said, pointing to the body.

Retrieving a scanner, he waved it over the admiral once and then turned to her with more surprise. "You stunned him?"

"Yes."

"What happened?"

"I need this to be confidential."

"Of course."

Sighing, she tried to figure out the best way to explain that she and her commanding officer nearly jumped into the sack together. Straightening, trying to gain at least remnants ofpoise, she righted her uniform and put her hair into place.

_Maybe I'll just explain the symptoms._

"He's been sweating heavily and his eyes have been unfocused."

"Why did you stun him?"

She coughed. "He asked me to put him in the brig."

"He's not in the Brig." As if unconvinced, he asked, "Captain, what aren't you telling me?"

"He …."

"Yes?"

"We almost …."

"Yes?" asked the doctor.

Wincing, she decided blurting it out would hurt less. "He tried to seduce me."

With a jerk, the Denobulan's head reared back. "Oh?"

Trying hard not to chew on her nails, she went through the entire story – from how he'd ordered the ship to Vulcan more than once and how she wound up in his cabin kissing him. In good taste, she decided to leave out the information of how he'd unzipped her uniform – nearly off – and how her knees were against his bed. And for some strange reason, she knew the doctor understood that's probably what happened anyway and waited for her to tell that lurid part of the tale. But, she didn't.

"That's it?" he asked.

Her eyes narrowed. "Close enough."

"Hmmmmm," he said, a little too gleefully. Holding his scanner aloft, he began to wax philosophic about human mating. "It's intriguing that humans under the most difficult of situations attempt to procreate."

Vega crossed her arms. "I'm telling you; it's not like him."

"Maybe he wants to begin a relationship with you. Although, I don't believe it's wise to--"

"He doesn't want a relationship with me." She sighed again. "He called me T'Pol. I think he thought I was her."

"Oh," he said. Waddling to her, he rested a hand on her shoulder. "Perhaps the three of you--"

"No!"

"You know in other species they are able to sustain a relationship with more than one partner and--"

"No." Her lips flattened. "Doctor, can we focus on the patient?"

"I have multiple degrees, including one in behavior psychology and sexual therapy should you decide to change your mind."

She wouldn't, not for a second.

As he waved his scanner over Archer again, the Denobulan frowned as he pondered over the readings.

"What is it?" she asked.

He shook his head and loaded up the imaging chamber, sending Archer headfirst into it. When the doors closed, an image of the admiral's brain displayed on a screen above and the Denobulan made a chortle sound in the back of his throat.

"What?" she asked.

He typed in a few commands on the panel in front of him, focusing on various systems one after another making the same chirp after every one.

"What?" asked Vega.

Phlox furrowed his brow and changed the view several more times, pondering each picture he brought up and chirping.

"Phlox, what is it?!"

The doctor turned to her and frowned. "His heart rate is high for a human, his blood pressure is up, there's increased activity here," he said pointing to an area toward the back of the brain.

Mel suspected the doctor could continue listing exactly what was wrong with Jon, taking more time than she really had, so she pressed again.

"What's wrong with him?" she asked.

"I've never quite seen issues like this on a human. The profuse sweating, the way his respiratory --"

"_Doctor, what is it_?!"

"I have absolutely no idea."

---

After a few drinks and a bite to eat, Shran and Gral were about to head back to the hospital where Staron was staying when a tall Andorian woman headed in the door. By the look on her face and the antennae lurching forward the way they were, Shran knew she was irked about something.

Stalking up to the two of them, she leaned against the bar.

"I knew you two would be here," she said.

Gral sipped his beer and grunted. "Have a drink."

A frown rooted itself on her face and her eyes shot to Shran's. "I got a call from General Krag – something you would've received if your communication device was on."

A weak smile attempted to placate the situation and her. "Gral and I were attempting to ignore the stuffy pointy ears who's in the hospital. He'd tried to call us three times already. Vulcans are stubborn, I'll give them that."

"Staron?" she asked.

He nodded and then diverted back to the reason she came after them. "What did General Krag want?"

"He didn't tell me. He indicated he wanted to speak with you."

A huff left the blue man's lips. "Was it urgent?"

"Thy'lek, it's from the general. I'd say you should return it."

Nodding the Andorian slipped away, as he noticed his aide grabbed a drink and let her eyes meander the bartender – a human male about twenty-six years of age with chocolate skin. Shaking his head he whipped out the communication device and held it to his lips, asking for his planet's leader.

"Shran!" said the voice.

"Yes?"

"I've been contacted by Admiral Gardner. It appears we're close to being able to successfully use the dilithium crystals in a ship."

"Good news," said Shran, trying to act cheery. His heart wasn't in it; he still felt like a traitor to his friends T'Pol and Gral.

"I'd like you to work out the details with their ambassador – Simon."

A hand smacked itself over his face and he rubbed his antennae at the man's name. "Did they indicate they wanted Neville Simon to represent them? I mean, did they mention his name specifically?"

"They did."

_Grendal!_ "Very well. I'll work with him."

"Excellent. Your loyalty to Andoria will be well rewarded, Thy'lek."

"Thank you, sir."

The general said, "I realize going to Earth was a hardship to you and your family. I'd like to recall you for a promotion and give the duty of ambassador to your aide."

Panic set in as soon as the words "recall" were mentioned. Maybe he'd argued with Krag about stealing the dilithium crystals to begin with and maybe he hadn't enjoyed being assigned to Earth, but he couldn't leave now. His eyes traipsed over to Gral and he watched the little pig slouch over his beer.

The man's aide may've shot and killed his girlfriend, but ….. They'd relied on each other, fought beside each other against Terra Prime operatives who injured T'Pol and Archer and somehow argued themselves into a friendship. After the Council broke up, they looked to each other for support and found they typically agreed on nearly every issue – about Simon, about Archer and T'Pol, the war ….

Shran must've been silent for too long because the general spoke again.

"I thought you'd be happy with the news. I would think you'd want your son to grow up thaan on Andoria and your daughter to learn the prowess of the Imperial Guard. You said you wanted that before you left."

"But, the war isn't over and the Council still needs us."

"It's why I want to promote Tares." After a few seconds, said. "Don't tell me you're enjoying that planet."

"It's not like that," said Shran, knowing the words were a lie.

"You're turning down the opportunity to come back to Andoria? You're turning down a chance to become a Major in the Imperial Guard?"

"For now … yes." After pausing a long moment, he said, "But, after the war, General, I'll be ready to return home."

"I'll have to think on this. I've never been turned down before."

"You'll _order_ me back? You'll force me to take the promotion?"

And without an answer, the connection went dead.

With a long sigh, Shran let his antennae fall and without saying a word, Gral and Tares appeared by his side. The little pig, his friend, snorted and then pointed to the communication device.

"You look like someone who's had his meal taken away mid-course," said Gral.

"What's wrong?" asked Tares.

Leaving their presence, he saddled up to the bar and ordered a drink – Andorian ale. Taking a long, slow drink he heard the others come up behind him.

"Blue, what happened?" asked Gral.

"Nothing," he muttered.

"Thy'lek?" asked Tares.

"I said nothing!" Forcing the rest of the drink down his throat, he turned to Gral. "We best be going back and meet Staron. Tares, you should come with us."

"If you'd like," she said.

"I'd like. Besides, you never know when you may become an ambassador yourself."

He didn't care about the confusion spreading over her face or the fact that Gral still had half a glass of ale left, he immediately started walking out the door, his antennae drooping.

---

It was six hours after she dropped the captain, and Captain Vega was stalling for time. According to T'Var, Admiral Gardner had tried contacting Admiral Archer every two hours attempting to provide information to him. Mel asked T'Var to indicate the admiral is indisposed, but she knew that excuse wouldn't last much longer.

Tired of waiting for word from Dr. Phlox, she headed down there and marched into Sickbay. Right away, she heard Archer's yells and curses – sounding like a man in a sanitarium. Unlike the usual orderly way it was kept, beakers were strewn about as well as hypos and canisters. Even the doctor's hair was wild, standing nearly on end, as the man's face – typically twisted into an enormous smile – was covered in a frown.

"I suppose you haven't learned anything," she said.

"I've run every test I possibly can. I can't think of a single human ailment that matches these exact symptoms. Yes, there are hundreds if not thousands that have some of the symptoms he's showing, but nothing that inhibits all of them."

Vega watched Archer – his eyes wild as he strained against the straps that held him down – yelling.

"Let me go!" he screamed.

"Couldn't you give him a sedative?" asked Vega.

"I've already given him two."

"In the past six hours?"

"Yes. There's supposed each dosage is supposed to last eight."

Her eyes widened and she gasped.

The Denobulan's hand combed through his hair – making it defy gravity shooting up like spikes over his head, appearing to Vega like a hedgehog. Slumping into the seat next to him he pointed to his computer.

"I've run the symptoms through the computer and … nothing. I don't think has ever happened, but I'm at a loss for what to do next."

Vega frowned; she knew Phlox was the very best medical officer Starfleet had ever seen and had come recommended by not only Admiral Archer himself, but Admiral Garnder. Phlox had turned down the responsibility of chief medical officer for Starfleet itself to go on this adventure, and rumor had it he'd declined more important positions through – like leading doctor of the Denobulan Institute of Medicine.

"Maybe … he's insane?" she said, hating to have the words come from her mouth.

Phlox turned his head and stared at the image on the screen and stroked his chin in consideration, as if pondering the idea the admiral – a man decorated by Starfleet as well as other alien nations, including Vulcan – was bonkers.


	43. Chapter 43

A/N: Many thanks to Mana for editing!

Admiral Gardner called once more and this time, Mel decided to close her eyes, grit her teeth and bear it. She still had absolutely no idea what was wrong with her senior officer and friend, but Starfleet had a right to know the admiral coordinating whatever offensive they were involved in was restrained in Sickbay, cursing like a sailor at anyone and anything that came near him and most probably a few cards short of a deck.

Sitting in front of the screen, she switched on her monitor and watched the swarthy face of Admiral Matt Gardner appear with a frown covering his face.

"Where the hell is Archer?" he said.

The man wasn't a fool and she realized by putting him off for more than seven hours, she may've actually hurt the allies chances to win the war. Sighing, she leaned into the terminal in front of her.

"For his protection as well as the safety of the crew, he's restrained in Sickbay. He's ill, and Phlox isn't exactly sure what's wrong."

Matt swore and then leveled his glare at her. "You knew I was trying to contact him; you could've told me sooner."

"I wanted to have all the facts, sir," she said. "I … I thought it would be something Phlox could cure right away."

"This is exactly what we _don't_ need right now."

"I know."

"There's no one to coordinate with the other ships accompanying you."

"I know."

"Who are we going to relay information to?"

"I don't know, sir."

He put his head in his hands and she heard the man give a long sigh. His fingers massaged the bridge of his nose and then he eventually extolled another deep breath. Vega knew she was in big trouble.

"I'm going to start having to relay information to you for the meantime."

"I don't have an admiral's clearance," she said.

Matt shook his head. "You don't need it. We busted Archer's clearance back to captain a month ago."

She was about to inquire about that, when the admiral continued. "Continue to wait there. Commander T'Nara and Stek from the Vulcan ships as well as Tavin – an Andorian – and Kev a Tellarite will rendezvous with the Panama at oh-nine hundred in two Earth standard days. When they reach your coordinates, I'll provide new instructions to you."

"I've never led multiple ships or bartered between races before," she said.

"Time to start learning," he said. Grimacing, he mentioned a couple of admirals who could be activated to serve in the front. "I'll have to think about it and discuss it."

"Of course, sir."

"Keep me posted on Archer's condition. I want to know the moment you hear something, you got that mister?"

"Yes, sir!"

The screen faded into black and Mel slouched in her chair and threw her eyes to her lap. She was out of her league. Way out of her league. She trusted herself to get through difficult situations, but diplomacy was never her strong suit. Never. Pushing eventually away from the station, she bounded through the Ready Room door and took a quick scan of the bridge. Travis almost instantly turned around, a smile vanishing from his face.

"He reamed you, didn't he?" he asked.

Scanning the Bridge, she gave a slight smirk. She figured the red rushing to her cheeks was evidence enough.

"Captain, I am receiving a faint message from a ship," said T'Var, her hand on the ear piece sticking out of her ear.

"What kind?" asked Vega.

"Unknown."

"Romulan?" Mel turned her attention to the science officer -- Ensign Indigo Jansen. The woman fumbled over the keyboard.

"It's out of long range sensors," she said.

T'Var said, "I am uncertain which species owns that vessel, but have attempted to run the communication through various protocols to decipher who it came from."

Her terminal beeped and Mel found herself standing in front of the Vulcan. "Did you learn anything?"

"No," said T'Var. "It did not register."

Vega frowned and then turned back to Travis. "Then, Mayweather, let's dart behind that moon over there," she said, pointing to the screen. "I'd like to stay hidden until I know it's friendly."

"The vessel will be unable to communicate with us if we do so," said T'Var. "The moon will interfere with the signal."

"I can handle that risk," she said.

Then Mel dragged her eyes across to Simon Levy who nodded in agreement with the order, as if he would be worried if they stayed in the black waiting.

Mel said, "Convey those orders to the Shenandoah and the Constantinople."

"On whose authority?" asked T'Var.

It was a common question asked when peers were communicating orders and Mel understood the question perfectly; she wouldn't have expected any less from her first-rate communicator. Slowly letting a smile slide across her face, Captain Vega shot her gaze to the Vulcan and then everyone in the room.

"On my authority, the one Admiral Gardner just gave me."

-----

Countless messages for the past day were sent to the Panama and went unanswered and unacknowledged. Logically, Skon knew the signal of his vessel, the Viking, was not strong enough to reach Admiral Archer, but quite illogically he hoped the human would know through his bond that T'Pol needed him and was trying to communicate with him.

_The bond is not strong enough,_ he thought. _If Archer were not human, maybe he would know._

Worse, than not receiving any word from the human, there was a single remaining canister of sedative – one he knew he should keep. Unfortunately T'Pol was already waking again, sweating and shivering despite the heat … and begging for another shot to her neck to put her out.

"There is only one left," he said. "If your symptoms worsen, you will need it."

A growl came to her lips and she writhed under his scrutiny. And although he thought now – maybe by the hour – of providing her assistance, he continued to respect her wishes and spoke to her soothingly.

"The fire is overwhelming," he whispered. "I know. But, the flames will worsen and madness will ensue, which is why we need to save it."

"The sedative."

"I am sorry."

"Please."

"No."

Like a child denied a toy, she threw her fist into her leg and tears formed in her eyes. Skon wanted to comfort her – the lack of control of emotions was disturbing to his people, and he knew it was unsettling even to her -- but he knew if he touched her that the burning would consume him too and they would mate.

Picking up the thermos of water – something he collected for her while she was still unconscious – he held it out.

He said, "You may not think you are thirsty, but you need to drink."

"I'm not thirsty."

"Drink, T'Pol."

"No."

Instead of arguing with her, he foisted the water to her lips and tilted the metallic bullet so that water ran down her throat. Although she gulped, she did so defiantly.

"See, it is refreshing," he said.

Panting, hot with Pon Farr, she wiped her lips against her forearm. A glimpse of sanity sparked and she furrowed her brow.

"Have we heard from his ship?" she asked.

"No."

"How long?"

"I have been attempting to contact them for a day."

"No, how long until we reach him?"

"Another two days, assuming they stay at those coordinates. If they go to warp …."

She turned her head and her eyes slipped closed for a moment. "No."

"You may think of another, but in exactly two days you will have no other options," he said.

"Then I die," she said.

"Your skin aches to be touched, caressed. There will come a point, T'Pol, when your body takes over and ignores your mind and logic."

"No."

"Oh, yes. I have touched the flames myself, felt them searing my flesh. My wife was away on business when Pon Farr took me. It took her three days to reach me, and it was almost too late for both of us. It is the female who writhes under the gaze of her mate … or even under another man's eye. And it is the male who dominates, who will take whomever he can to satisfy the craving and heat."

T'Pol panted, pushing a piece of sweaty hair from her face.

Skon said, "I was fortunate to have my wife return in time. Had she not …."

"You would've taken another, despite your marriage?"

"Yes. There comes a point where you have little control what your body does."

"Then you know why I return to my mate."

"The Panama is not Vulcan. Your body urges to return there."

"Yes."

"By heading to his ship, you risk death. He may not be able to satisfy your fever and you may still pant for Vulcan."

"We have discussed this already. It grows tiresome."

Skon drew a long breath, and if to persuade her to give in, he pointed to his console. "I have attempted to contact his ship, but they have not acknowledged my hail."

Confusion spread over her face and then she closed her eyes.

He continued, "I know they have received the transmission. Why would they choose not to communicate with us? I believe the evidence points to one of two conditions – he has chosen another or he does not feel the bond, the mating urges."

She shook her head. "He's in Sickbay, writhing for me …. I have to reach him!"

A trembling hand reached for the controls and she typed in a few commands as Skon raised an eyebrow.

"What are you doing?"

She finished and when she was done, she defiantly stared up at him. "Sedate me!"

"T'Pol," he said more sternly. And then he glanced over at the instruments, his jaw slackening with emotion -- terror. "What have you done?"

She'd managed to jettison some of the fuel – hoping to send off a flare. If they were lucky – and Skon didn't believe in luck – a human viewing long range scans would see it … and not an enemy. When his head turned to see T'Pol again, he felt anger and attempted to stifle it by reaching in and retrieving the last of the canisters.

"You have acted foolishly," he said. And then the hypo touched her neck and she slumped over.

-------

Phlox was a patient man – most of the time. Now, however, he poured over information from every single source he could think of regarding human illnesses, diseases, viruses and psychosis. Although he didn't exactly think Admiral Archer was cracking up as the humans would say, there was absolutely, positively no other explanation. The activity in his brain was abnormal – unlike readings from any other Earthling he'd ever seen.

While looking over his patient, he mixed the concoction: a mixture of Veran root, seeds found on Xelian III and exactly three drops of juice from the pomp tree found on Andoria. Together these ingredients – known to every medical man on Denobula – acted as a natural sedative, sending the admiral into sleep as soon as it was dripped down his throat. Phlox thought the natural potion was better for the human's system than receiving a chemical sedative, despite the side effects it had: increased hair growth, dizziness, and fertility.

Putting the small bowl up to Archer's lips, he tilted it and then watched it begin to drizzle into the madman's mouth. Fortunately, the admiral wasn't awake enough to deny it and only fluttered his eyes as it trickled into his body. Satisfied, Phlox took the bowl away and washed it. Tapping his finger to his chin, he waddled back to his computer and pulled up the various scans he'd taken of the admiral, hoping some new information would reveal itself. The moment he shut off his monitor was the second Captain Vega walked into Sickbay.

Just as the admiral may've, she paced from one side of the room to another.

"I'm sorry, Captain, I have no new news," said Phlox.

"Nothing?"

Shaking his head, he said, "I told you I would inform you as soon as I discovered something."

She sighed. "I know. I was hoping …."

"I know."

A furrow remained on her brow, and he knew instantly the woman had more on her mind than just her commander. With a small smile, he offered her a chair next to his work station.

"I could use the company," he said. When she hesitated, he said, "I heard from Commander Hess that we were staying in the location, so it seems like you have time."

A half-smile reached her lips and she grabbed the seat next to him.

"There's another problem?" he asked.

"Huh?"

"It appears you have something on your mind."

"No."

Watching her, he noticed her eyes didn't quite meet his – a telltale sign there indeed was something else troubling her.

"I understand we have been receiving hails," he said.

"What don't you hear?" she asked.

A small smile reached his eyes. "Very little."

"We did. We don't know who's sending it."

"And that concerns you."

"I'm not ready to act as the lead. In less than a week, we could be joined by our allies for an offensive. I've never led a fleet."

"There's always a first time."

She frowned. "I'm not experienced."

"And yet you are the most experienced."

"That doesn't mean much."

"Oh, I disagree. You have more than one hundred people on this vessel who trust your judgment implicitly, including me."

She was silent, when he decided to smirk. "I heard from the admiral that you never lacked confidence."

Her eyes narrowed. "Did he tell you I was egotistical?"

There was bountiful advice he wanted to provide, but just as he opened his mouth, Ensign T'Var entered the room. A PADD in her hand, she headed toward the captain and then thrust it in her direction.

"The vessel that has been contacting us has done something most … illogical," she T'Var.

"What?" asked Vega.

"The science officer was able to pick up what looks like a small explosion on long-range sensors."

Phlox crossed his arms. "How interesting."

Vega continued to stare, confusion spreading across her face. "What was the explosion?"

"Unknown."

"Keep an eye on it," said Vega.

Then T'Var turned, an eyebrow barely cocking, to the patient. "The admiral?"

Vega frowned. "We don't know what's wrong yet."

The Vulcan strolled over to the man's bed and then bent down. The moment her eyes perused the admiral, Phlox had the most peculiar idea. Many years ago, a patient of his had a coma and yet his memories came to light thanks to Ambassador Soval.

"Ensign," he said. "The admiral has peculiar disorder that we have been unable to determine. After reviewing the human database, performing multiple scans and analyzing the, I am no closer to finding what is wrong with him."

T'Var lowered her head. "That is unfortunate."

"There is something you may be able to do," said Phlox.

"What it is?"

"Perform a meld," he said.

"A mind meld?" she asked.

Phlox noticed out of the corner of his eye, Captain Vega closed in on the two of them.

"Yes," he said.

"Although I have studied the Kir'Shara, I am not proficient at--"

"Perhaps you could at least try," said Phlox.

T'Var's eyes scanned the human and then she nodded. "I will attempt to help. But, as a human might say, it is best to not get one's hopes up." Looking then to her captain, she said, "Allow me to meditate before doing so."

"Shall we reconvene in an hour?" asked Phlox.

"That should suffice," said T'Var and then she headed out the door.

The only thing the Denobulan could do was to think to prepare as he noticed Captain Vega stared at the door as if perplexed at the notion two beings could exchange thoughts.

_Humans have many things to yet encounter._

He spent the hour telling her what it was and how it might help as she knitted her brow and explained more than once she thought it was myth.

----

Mel Vega had heard rumors of mind melds – where Vulcans could apparently peer into another's thoughts and glean information. The captain never believed the rumors were true, thinking no creature could have such wondrous powers without abusing it. Now she'd get a firsthand demonstration.

When T'Var entered Sickbay again an hour later dressed in ceremonial Vulcan robes, Mel noticed she seemed more serene and relaxed. Vega always thought the long robes made the pointy-eared creatures look as if they were floating, levitating off the ground. To her, it made the Vulcans appear mysterious.

Mind melds, and the fact they existed, made the logicians even more of an enigma.

"Are you ready?" asked Phlox.

T'Var nodded and strolled over to the admiral, placing her hands on his nose, temple and jaw. Although the Vulcan had asked for a certain distance, both Mel and Phlox huddled nearer to see the spectacle.

"My mind to your mind, my thoughts to your thoughts," whispered T'Var. "Our minds are merging."

Almost a minute passed before T'Var turned her head to Phlox. "I cannot."

"Try again," he said.

And so she repeated the steps, this time using both hands to cradle his face. Mouthing the words, as if to help her focus, she squinted her closed eyes.

"Admiral?" she asked.

Melanie found herself moving closer through the silence, trying to see exactly what was happening. By the look on the Vulcan's face, her eyes darting from side to side, the captain guessed not much was really going on.

"Admiral?" she asked again.

Vega could tell the Vulcan was about to ask again when her shoulders lurched forward – a look of pain spreading across her face. Melanie's hands reached out, just about to rip T'Var away from the meld when Phlox shook his head.

"Wait," he said.

"T'Pol?" asked T'Var. "She's trying to contact me. She needs me. Vulcan."

Jon arched his back, his eyes still closed, as the expression on T'Var's eyebrows knotted and her lips drew tight. Her nostrils flared and she shook her head in response. Fear.

"What is it?" asked Mel.

Only a few seconds later, his eyes shot open and T'Var gave a gasp, stepping away from him while shivering.

Suddenly, the admiral who should've been out for another four hours, began begging to be released and struggled against his restraints. Phlox – confusion spreading over his face – hastily mixed a concoction and forced it down the admiral's throat (despite his head squirming) as Vega reached out to her communications officer.

"Are you all right?" asked Mel.

"Captain," she said in a whisper, her voice reverberating with emotion. T'Var breathed deeply and then closed her eyes.

"What did you see?" asked Mel, aware the admiral had finally grown silent.

T'Var righted herself, Vulcan airs drifting over her again despite the sweat beading at her temple, and shook her head. "I cannot say."

"What?" asked Vega.

Phlox gathered around her as well, holding a bowl of the mixture he just made. "He should be out for a while." Turning, to T'Var he asked, "What happened?"

"It is never to be spoken of."

"What?" asked Vega.

"It is not for others to know."

The captain caught the woman's arm and knitted her brow. "What did you see?"

Phlox also slid in front of her as if to block an escape to the door. "Ensign," he said.

"I cannot say."

Vega frowned. "Do I have to order you?"

"I … cannot say."

Suddenly, the doctor's furrowed brow eased. "Captain, you said he called for T'Pol when you were … with him. He called for her again, didn't he, Ensign?"

She gave a short head nod, ducking his eyes.

"He called for Vulcan, too. Captain, didn't you say that he tried to take this ship there?"

"Ummm, yes," said Vega. Although the doctor seemed hot on the trail to an answer, she was terribly confused.

"Pon Farr," he said. "That's it isn't it?"

Ensign T'Var looked away and Phlox sighed. Vega guessed her communications officer would need a little nudge and so she gave her an order, despite not knowing what the hell the two were talking about.

"Ensign, I'm ordering you to answer the doctor's question."

T'Var turned on the captain. "To speak of these things, they are … inappropriate."

"What would be inappropriate?" asked Vega. "What's Pon Farr?"

"We would keep this confidential," said Phlox.

"You misunderstand. Vulcans … we are logical people. To speak of the madness …."

"I don't understand," said Vega.

"I'll take that as a yes, Ensign," said Phlox. "Maybe you can answer this – did you detect a bond between the admiral and Ambassador T'Pol?"

"Yes," she said.

Phlox nodded, muttering under his breath in Denobulan and then finishing it with a few phrases in English. "I've been blind he said."

"Could someone catch me up?" asked Vega.

Phlox sighed and then turned to T'Var. "How long does he have?"

T'Var answered, "Two days at the outset. The Science Directorate--"

"We know all about the Science Directorate. Thank you, Ensign. You've been most helpful."

As she bowed, Vega was about to ask again about all the confusing terms and information, when the doctor called out after the ensign.

"As your physician, I'd like to recommend you take the rest of the shift off. We appreciate your assistance and will keep what you shared confidential."

The doors slid shut and finally without much patience left, Vega nearly stamped her foot. "What the hell is going on?"

"Admiral Archer needs to have sex or he will die."

_This is going to be a long day_, she thought.

-----

Logic.

Reason.

The two words chanted in her minds attempting to dislodge the chaos that existed. She clung to them like a lifeline, hoping to garner the last bit of control she had.

_No!_

There was only flame. The heat, scorching her insides causing her to sweat and tremble in its wake. Water dripped from her skin and bathed the floor of their small vessel. It made her want to scream. It made her hands ache to drift over her body to douse the burning. As she panted, watching Skon, she wondered if perhaps she had – she'd lost track of her movements thanks to the madness.

Sucking in the air around her, she smelled him. The scent tasted sweet on her palette like fruit after she'd starved herself as a child while learning control from a priest. Savoring it, she let the aroma – sand – hang on her tongue and sucked it. Suckled it.

He'd offered himself to her hours ago – maybe days, and for an instant, she wondered what mating with another Vulcan would be like. Half-lidded, she watched Skon and imagined he would dominate like a Vulcan male. His green tinted skin would be almost completely free from hair and no doubt his fingers would clench around her temple to force a meld as he spoke to her in their ancient language. Logic and control would be ripped from him as he gave into her mating cycle, crushing her body to his. Maybe he would even smile or curse under chaos' whim as his long fingers stroked her flesh.

It left her panting.

His head turned to her and she knew the glaze in his eyes meant he was succumbing to her heat. A shaky voice called to her, speaking only in Vulcan.

"You do not have much time left," he said. Two fingers stroked her cheek and she gasped under their motion. "We have only one day before your fever kills you."

Her tongue rolled out her mouth as if to dip his fingers against it. As her tongue neared his outstretched hand she felt the sizzle of her bond.

_Jonathan._

And suddenly instead of imagining a hairless, green body next to her drenched with sweat, she saw a hairy one. It was a form she was infinitely familiar with, comfortable with. Their mouths would touch with yearning and they would exchange tongues allowing them to roll against the others. Jonathan would take his mouth to caress bits of her skin, love it, as he whispered her name.

_Yes._

Skon was beginning to feel the fires, but Jonathan was already scorched with its heat.

"We must continue," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "We must continue as we are."

"Listen to reason," he said.

"No."

"Let me help you."

"No."

And for the first time, she heard anger in his voice. "I do not care if you think of another. Your temperature is high and I know your blood boils. You do not have long to live."

She shook her head vigorously.

"You will enter a coma in less than a day, T'Pol."

"No."

His fingers dated to her face again and ran down her neck. The heat that trailed along his digits made her pant.

"Please," she said.

"This quenches you, does it not?" he asked. His face flushed and his eyes turned to fire.

"Yes," she said. "But, I cannot. My bond."

"If he is caught in your desire, then you will free him by giving into your urges."

"No."

His fingers swerved under her chin and then ran along her lips; she shivered under the attention and found her heart pound against her breast.

"Perhaps you can teach me how to touch lips," he said.

Quivering, she noticed her head almost nod as the words "logic" and "reason" faded into the background. Heat, overwhelming like a sauna, crawled up her flesh and made her perspire more.

-------

Phlox had explained for nearly thirty minutes exactly what Pon Farr was, indicating T'Pol had probably begun to feel its affects, and provided a detail scenario of what needed to happen. But Mel found herself furrowing her brow more as the conversation continued. Apparently, Vulcans engaged in sex like they were salmon. They had to return to their planet and take a mate or die in the process.

Silently, she decided, it was a bad way for a species to procreate.

When the lesson was over and before the doctor could show her pictures to further her understanding, she looked at the admiral.

"We can't take him to Vulcan," she said.

Disappointment rang in his voice and he turned off the monitor above. "I suppose we can't. Although, I wonder whether mating would be enough."

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"The salmon don't necessarily have to get home. They merely need to spawn. Perhaps engaging in sexual relations is all he needs."

"Are you sure?"

Phlox frowned. "No. But, it appears we don't have much of a choice." It was then the Denobulan turned to her. "Perhaps you can assist him."

Her eyes turned over to her friend and she scrunched her mouth to one side. "I don't think I'm who he wants."

A hand reached over her shoulder and he gave her a sympathetic smile. "You indicated he tried to engage you earlier."

_This is just weird._

She stuffed her arms over her chest and continued to frown. Watching his sleeping figure, she tried to envision – although it wasn't difficult since she'd thought about it before and had recently experienced it – a kiss between them. The kiss, she'd wanted, would be of a man who believed she was his entire world. His hands would cradle the sides of her face and he'd gaze into her eyes – his green ones on hers – as he whispered to her that he loved her.

Just having sex wasn't quite the romantic notion she'd imagined. She especially wasn't keen on the idea that as his body stretched over hers, he'd think about T'Pol and maybe even call her name.

Shaking her head, she didn't think she was up to the task. And then she thought about a universe without Jonathan Archer. That didn't seem quite fair.

For an instant, she thought about suggesting another woman. Panama was filled with them – Hess, T'Var …. As she was about to confess to Phlox she couldn't do it, the admiral's eyes opened and he moaned as if in pain.

"I'm afraid to give him another sedative so soon," he said. "Ensign T'Var indicated he had maybe two days at most." It was the doctor's way, she knew, to tell her – hurry up and make a decision.

Wiping a hand over her face, she sighed.

"I need to take care of a few things, first," she said.

Phlox smiled an overextended grin and she cursed in her mind.

"I just hope this works," she said.

TBC


	44. Chapter 44

Skon leaned over and T'Pol allowed their lips to connect. Her body assured her – vetoing her mind – that it would be one simple kiss to show him the art, to teach him before pushing him away. But when their mouths met a gasp worked its way out of her mouth and a tongue plunged in between his unsuspecting lips.

_Mate._

Unlike last time, he did not recoil. Instead, she found him a quick study – not nearly as good a kisser as Jonathan -- but adequate enough to stoke the blazing fire that rummaged in her belly and burned her throat and lips.

_Yes!_ she thought. _Mate!_

The relief that came with the meeting of their lips and tongues brought intense pleasure, waves cascaded off her body and caused the hairs on her arm to stand on end. Her panting increased twofold as if she would hyperventilate and her body screamed for her to succumb to him.

Fire ignited in his eyes and he grabbed her arm as if to twist it off and dragged her out of the seat to meet his lips again. Although she knew he was not particularly fond of the practice, she also recognized he did so to emblazon her further … successfully.

Her brain cried out to stop, but the bedlam was fierce and persistent, clouding her eyes and forcing her tongue to swell.

Fingers and hands caressed open skin – necks, fingers, mouths, ears – until his hand reached begin her head to clutch at her hair and drag her lips more fiercely against his own.

As he held her hair tight in his grasp, his other hand reached up to touch her temple. This was the beginning of the mating dance for Vulcans. He would force a meld where they would share the sensation of burning – lust and desire – and then he would satisfy her craving.

She titled her head up to meet Skon's fingers. In her mind's eye, she saw a familiar figure, one that was angry, crossing his arms and furrowing his brow.

"Jonathan," she whispered.

Her fingers moved, willed by the last bit of control she had. It was another desperate attempt to receive his attention; this one possibly stranding she and Skon.

"T'Pol," said Skon, sternly.

She faded into the black, her eyes rolling into her head, barely noticing her body collapsed to the floor.

----

Vega had to admit it'd been a damned long time since she'd gone to bed with a man. Silently, she counted up boyfriends and came to the embarrassing conclusion it'd been about two years.

The notion stopped her in her tracks and she stood in the middle of the hallway, watching crewmen stream by, as she realized the length of time. Shaking her head, she continued to the turbolift and watched the door close.

And yet, despite how much time had elapsed, even the idea of sleeping with Jon didn't really sound as appetizing at it did when he was kissing her in his room. Maybe, she thought, it had something to do with the fact he didn't love her.

Although she wasn't the Harlequin romance kind of girl, she did have particular ideas when it came to the act. She believed it should involve love. And so did her family -- a long line of Catholic Latinos from Puerto Rico, Cuba and Mexico. It had been a major blow to her family that she hadn't gotten married, especially at her age and had chosen a life that put her among the stars instead of close by with a husband and children.

Though, she didn't hold the same beliefs, she occasionally felt the pangs of her upbringing and something she attributed to her biological clock.

When she stepped onto the Bridge, she saw the science officer leaning over her station. Vega gave her a lopsided smile.

"See something interesting?" she asked.

Indigo paused and then a look of bafflement crept across her face. "Maybe, but …. Nah."

Mel's smile fell. "Go ahead."

"It's nothing."

"We're on a difficult mission, putting us in jeopardy. If you see something, I suggest you tell me … even if you think it's nothing."

"I saw another explosion, a bigger one. I was thinking … it seems like a flare."

"A flare?"

"Yeah. I told you."

An idea hit Vega, an absurd one._ What if the vessel trying to contact us is T'Pol? If Jon feels whatever this Pon Farr thing is, maybe she does too and is trying to alert him._

Ludicrous. She thought it was her overactive imagination attempting to save her from an embarrassing situation.

Yet, rather than dismiss it, for some silly reason she ordered T'Var into Sickbay and then headed down to confer with Dr. Phlox. Maybe the three of them would be able to discern the truth.

----

Skon watched the information on the console and hung his head. T'Pol in her madness jettisoned nearly all the fuel, lit by their engine, for what purpose he couldn't understand. It caused the vessel to lurch when the fire and fuel ignited and then grow still; nearly all systems were offline – lights, some power, and even life support.

They were doomed.

Using his mathematic brain, he calculated they had exactly one day's air and perhaps enough fuel for another half a day.

They would never reach Vulcan.

By attempting to assist her, he'd caused her to act out of desperation. He should've listened to her, understood the bond she had with Archer was permanent and meaningful to her. Hubris and perhaps want made him act otherwise. Illogical. Pointing his fingers under his chin, he gathered his thoughts for a second before helping T'Pol.

When he reached her, even in the pitch-black that enveloped the ship, he could see her pant and shiver.

"I will help you reach him," he said. "I apologize for being so foolish."

Deciding he couldn't exactly use the fuel to do anything else, he closed his eyes and burned the last of it using the engines one more time hoping to send a final beacon to Archer's ship. He put the communication signal to distress, thankful it still worked for at least a few more minutes.

In the dark, he then picked up T'Pol's body and arranged her into the chair next to him. He realized soon he'd need to restrain her – before she did harm to herself – and took off to look for something to hold her.

-------

Jonathan Archer had the feeling he was floating, way above the world as if on a cloud, and realized with disappointment he was in Sickbay. The moment lucidity hit him, he realized how comforting it felt to be conscious and not think of tearing people – like Skon – apart and ravishing T'Pol.

With a groan, he realized the floating was hampered by tethers and realized his arms and legs were strapped against the biobed. Turning his head slightly, he saw Phlox heading toward him with a bowl in his hand.

"No more," said Archer. "I don't want any."

"Now, admiral, this will just help you sleep."

"I don't want it. Please."

It stopped the Denobulan for a second, and Archer tried his best to smile. And then it occurred to him what brought him out of his fog and steered his mind away from violence and sex: T'Pol.

"There's something important," he whispered, realizing his tongue wasn't quite as coordinated as he remembered.

"What?"

At that moment, Archer heard the doors swish open and instantly he smelled what walked in the door: women. Suddenly, his brain prickled with heat and he gazed at them, wondering if fire could shoot from his eyeballs and scorch them with flame. Immediately he squirmed, understanding the limits of the restraints, and felt his lips swell, aching to be kissed.

Melanie walked closer and then looked down at him.

"You seem to be feeling a little better," she said.

His hand automatically gripped the bed and clutched at the sheet as he imagined his mouth on hers and their tongues dueling. Curses fled to his mind, obscenities that would cause her cheeks to blush and before he could whisper them to her, Phlox interrupted.

"It appears so," said Phlox, joining her. "He said he had something important to say."

_What was it?! _Wracking his brain he attempted to dislodge ideas about wooing women and concentrate on what allowed him to revive. Something touched his mind, begging him to speak, but that single thread of sanity had snapped.

"He hasn't spoken in a day," said Mel.

_I'll say something. _And then he smiled, his lips curling lecherously. "If you release me, I may be able to better communicate."

Phlox narrowed his eyes and as Melanie took a step forward, her hand on the restraints, the doctor held her back.

"Why don't you tell us, admiral," he said. "You can speak from the biobed."

The two other women with Mel had confusion cluttering their faces, even T'Var

The Vulcan said, "I would not trust what he says. He is under the influence."

Mel backed away and Archer closed his eyes in futility, unable to satisfy the need gripping his body and preventing him from being able to think.

Vega turned to the doctor. "Indigo said she saw something that seemed like a flare. Actually two flares and I saw one for myself. I know it's a long shot, but I was wondering … do you all think it might be Ambassador T'Pol?"

T'Var cocked an eyebrow and placed her hands behind her back. "If Ambassador T'Pol has the fever, she would not be able to perform logical thought. In the admiral's mind, I understood chaos had already taken them."

The information sounded familiar to Jon, despite the madness. Closing his eyes, he saw his bondmate in the arms of another the two kissing and caressing. Struggling against his restraints he then watched as T'Pol flicked her hands along the console to send a beacon into space. As she fell into unconsciousness, she mouthed his name.

_Yes, that's what woke me._

And despite his body screaming to him to answer his arousal, he turned to the three people in Sickbay as they chatted.

"It's T'Pol," he said.

They didn't hear him and with a growl, he said the words again louder.

"It's T'Pol," he said. "She's the one who sent the flare – to let you know." And at the mere idea that they would reunite, his body writhed. "If you release me, I can show you the coordinates."

Phlox frowned and T'Var narrowed her eyes. But Mel titled her head to one side.

"You could indicate where they are from your current position," said T'Var.

Angry, he let his voice shake a little. "I don't know the exact coordinates, but I know the area they're in."

Phlox shook his head.

"Let me go!"

"Release him," said Mel.

Phlox disagreed. "I don't think that's wise. We know he's under the influence of Pon Farr and--"

"Release him."

Phlox said, "If we do, I recommend we provide a mild sedative so--"

Archer disagreed. "I can't think with that rummaging around in my head. Let me go!!"

Just as Phlox was about to oppose the notion again, Mel moved forward and began undoing the restraints that kept him bound to the biobed. When she did, he watched her fingers and considered putting his lips or tongue to them. Finally as she freed him and he stood, he thought about pressing his hands to her shoulders and push her against the wall. Trembling, he tried to focus on finding T'Pol.

Captain Vega walked over to the console that typically showed a patient's insides and typed in a few commands. She then turned to the intercom next to her.

"Vega to the Bridge."

Travis answered. "Bridge."

"I'd like you to pinpoint exactly where the last explosion we saw was and send those star charts to the monitor in Sickbay."

Archer could hear the confusion in Mayweather's voice, but after a brief pause he agreed.

"Yes, ma'am."

Within a few seconds, Archer saw a star chart appear on the screen ahead. Walking bare foot on the cold deck plating he closed in on the monitor, standing directly behind Melanie, the citrus of her perfume tickling his nose and stirring his libido. She shivered a little, what he guessed was the close proximity between them. Rather than back away, he stepped nearer to her, his lips nearly on her ear as he pointed to the map.

"Zoom in on that sector."

She did and his mind buzzed, as if trying to recall a memory almost out of reach. Through the bond, he attempted to rouse his bondmate, but he could feel the fever scorch her and he gasped.

"_What are the coordinates?"_

She did not, could not responds, and with fallen shoulders, he asked Melanie to nudge the screen right and left while he licked his lips almost tasting the scent of the woman in front of him. Some of it looked familiar and he realized that he could only get the Panama closer rather than provide the exact location.

"I know it's in this region," he whispered into her ear, his finger circling parts of the screen as his teeth scraped against her earlobe.

She stepped away. "Maybe with sensors we might be able to find it."

T'Var said, "Captain, you indicated Admiral Gardner asked you to remain at these coordinates until our allies could join us."

"Yes, he did, Ensign." Folding her arms across her chest, Archer watched as Mel nodded. "But, we just received a distress call from Vulcan's ambassador."

"We do not know whether it is truly a distress call," said T'Var.

"The admiral said it was."

"Doctor Phlox indicated the admiral is delusional."

Archer stepped closer to Melanie and she watched narrowing her eyes, as if considering the information. Before he could approach her, she said, "Regardless, I think it bears at least investigation."

"You are taking a risk," said T'Var.

Mel nodded. "You told me that a bond would enable both Admiral Archer and Ambassador T'Pol to communicate. Wouldn't the admiral know her location?"

"The Science Directorate proved that humans do not--" said T'Var.

"Would you want the Romulans to capture the ambassador?"

"Of course not, however--"

"Then what choice do we have?" asked Mel.

The Vulcan had no response.

Mel said, "Contact Admiral Gardner right away."

T'Var furrowed her brow. "And the fleet?"

"I want to talk with Gardner first."

With that, the Vulcan strolled out the door. Archer lost track of the rest of the conversation between Phlox and Melanie, despite somewhere in his brain attempting to force him to listen. Instead, his attention was attuned to Melanie, and not so much what she said, but the curve of her cheek, the pout of her lip and the perfume still clinging to his tongue. A hand reached out and drifted to her long tresses, falling through them as his lips dodged to her throat. In return, fingers curled into his hair and drew back his head. As his mouth opened to kiss her on the lips and allow his tongue to touch hers, Dr. Phlox intercepted to shove a bowl with liquid down his throat.

It was only an instant later that he felt the floating feeling again, his head drooping against his chest as the doctor and Captain Vega escorted him back to the biobed. He tried asking them to release him, but his mouth wouldn't budge. Before his eyes started to close he heard Melanie speak.

"Thank you for sedating him."

----

Melanie didn't exactly bend the truth, but she danced around it as if doing a little soft-shoe routine. Only after an hour of explaining Vulcan's ambassador had sent a distress call and might be in danger, was she allowed to take the Panama to investigate. Although Admiral Archer's condition had something to do with the call, she decided – for the sake of Ensign T'Var's confidentiality and just good sense – that she would forget to mention it. It was minor details, she'd told herself.

Right away, she ordered Travis to travel to the area where they believed T'Pol was located and asked Indigo, her science officer, to keep a sharp eye on the long and short-range scanners. Mayweather plotted the course and announced at warp one, they'd be there in three hours.

She also asked T'Var to begin communications with the vessel that attempted to contact them earlier and the Vulcan nodded.

The Panama pulled away from the group, leaving Captain Stiles in the Constantinople, in command of the remaining Starfleet vessels, and Mel got a call from Dr. Phlox.

Admiral Archer had gotten worse.

When she walked into Sickbay, she could see that rather than flush, attempt to tear at his restraints and curse, he trembled with a fever. Skin white and clammy to the touch, she withdrew her fingers from his cheek.

"I thought Ensign T'Var said he had another day?"

Phlox shook his head. "I don't know. The Vulcans don't keep any data about Pon Farr," he said.

"Is there a Vulcan doctor you can talk with?" she asked.

Phlox shook his head and then finally it settled. "I could contact a Vulcan I know. He's not a doctor, but I would assume he's been through this himself. I just hope I'm able to communicate with Soval in time."

"Travis says we have about three hours."

"I'll contact him right away."

"Good. Anything you can do in the meantime?" she asked.

"I could continue to sedate him."

"All right."

As Mel turned around, she heard the doctor call after her. "I can appreciate that you want to wait for T'Pol, but we may run out of time."

That was something Mel was unprepared to think about.

When she made it back to the Bridge, she asked T'Var if they'd received word from T'Pol's vessel.

"No response," she said.

With a curse, Mel wondered why she hadn't contacted them earlier and decided, with a frown: fear of the Romulans. Thinking she wouldn't make that mistake again, she instructed her communications officer to continue contacting them and to send information that they were coming.

_I just hope Jon can hold out that long._

With that, she settled into the command chair and crossed her legs, her chin resting on her fingers as she perched waiting for a sign.

-----

T'Pol awoke again – this time the unable to think. Chaos. Green. The color of her blood surged through her body, blinding her eyes and flooding her brain. The heat, the insatiable fire, licked her insides as if to burn her alive. Inferno.

Bearing her teeth, she growled at the man next to her, unable to recognize him, and drank in his scent. Male. Vulcan. He spoke words to her in Vulcan, but she couldn't focus on the meaning. Instead, she gazed at his lips wondering how they tasted and pondered the idea of biting them until they bled so she could suckle the liquid. Shaking, her hand reached out and attempted to grab his temple to begin the mating ritual – sharing minds and then bodies. He deftly stepped out of the way.

"No," he said in Vulcan.

Lurching forward, she disagreed. "Yes!"

And though she was nimble, he quickly had her in a vice grip and planted her back in her seat until she felt her body tethered to the chair she occupied. Frustrated, she struggled against him, but soon realized she was stuck. Trapped.

Screaming, she cursed him – in every language she could think of – and accused him of everything she could think of. She said he was guilty of leading her on, of accompanying her and denying his body, of being unwilling to fulfill a Vulcan pact to mate in dire circumstances like these. Scathing words sprang from her lips about his lineage, his sister and how she'd been involved in nepotism. Her lips curled as she blamed Skon for agreeing to come with her so he could watch her die and claim the ambassadorship. Tongue coated with fever, caking against the roof of her mouth, she told him that he would never satisfy her as a lover anyway, not as her human one did. Vulcans like him, she claimed, lacked sexual prowess.

"Do not mock me," he said.

A smile spread across her lips at the emotion that tinged his voice.

"You know not what you speak of," he said. "The chaos has taken your mind."

"Then prove to me you are capable."

A hand trembled and snagged her hair while her mouth tilted up hoping for a kiss – a human one.

"Tempting," he said.

When their lips almost touched, she called out a word in her fever – the human's name. Eyes opening, she felt fingers snake along her shoulder and caress it as she writhed under his touch.

"But, unfortunately, you chose your path, T'Pol, and I feel honor bound to see it through with you."

And then she felt his hand grip her shoulder, crushing it as if he would snap her collarbone. Instantly, her eyes drifted closed and she slumped against her chair.

-----

"I got something!" shouted Ensign Indigo Jansen, the science officer.

Melanie sprinted to the station and almost shoved the young woman out of the way to call up the information. In front of both of them, they saw a tiny little vessel listing in space.

"Power is down. Communications are down. I'm getting two faint life signs."

"What are they?" asked Mel. "Vulcan?"

Jansen shook her head. "I don't know. I can't confirm."

Captain Vega looked at the data and sighed. The coincidences, she decided, were too many to merely dismiss. Despite the fact she'd heard of decoy Romulan vessels blowing up Federation vessels, she decided she was in too deep.

"In for a penny, in for a pound," she said.

When T'Var cocked an eyebrow, Mel laughed softly. "Human expression," said Vega.

"I have heard it before," said her communications officer.

And within less than thirty minutes, the Panama used a grappler to catch the vessel and bring it inside the ship. Vega ordered Simon to stand down, seeing him with his hand on his weapon about to head out the door, and told him that she'd heard from a Starfleet officer it was a quarantine vessel.

Simon frowned.

"Enact quarantine procedures," she ordered.

Silently, she figured it was the best excuse she could think of to keep Ensign T'Var's information confidential and save the admiral's life. Levy agreed, with a scowl – as if he didn't buy the information – and then announced his team had been called off..

"Life signs are growing fainter," said Jansen.

Mel looked at the blond. "Indigo, tell Dr. Phlox we have the ship."

"Yes, ma'am," said Jansen.

Vega then turned to T'Var. "Tell the folks in that ship we're using quarantine procedures and that we've cleared the decks between the shuttle bay and Sickbay. And repeat that message in the shuttle bay."

She nodded and followed those orders.

Levy leaned on his console. "Ma'am, you going to tell us what this is?"

Vega took a deep breath. "We just brought the Vulcan ambassador and aide aboard. They sent a distress call yesterday at approximately nineteen hundred hours. Through … information … we discovered the ambassador had contracted a Vulcan illness."

Levy said, "Unless it was Section 31, we would've heard--"

Vega spun her chair around to the man and stared him down, secretly hoping he'd come away with the conclusion that she had knowledge from that super-secret organization. As his face relaxed to awareness, he sat down.

"My apologies," he said.

"It's okay." A smile drifted onto Mel's lips. "I understand your concern."

And then pointing to T'Var, she said, "Ensign, come with me."

She headed to the turbolift and then sighed as the doors closed.

"The ruse --" said T'Var.

"Ensign, I know your people are always truthful, but … occasionally humans believe a white lie – a small one – is probably for the best."

She nodded. "Actually, Captain, I thought you handled the situation quite adeptly."

The two women stared at each other for a minute and then Vega broke out into a smile.

"Thanks," said Vega. "You know, the admiral and ambassador owe you their lives. Good work."

"Thank you," she said.

And then Vega walked into Sickbay to see Archer, already awake and alert, attempting to rip free of his restraints. Phlox, a little harried sounding, indicated he'd awakened as soon as the ship was brought aboard.

"He knows she's here," he said.

"I have to get to T'Pol," said Archer, groggily.

"We've cleared the decks between the shuttle bay to here, Doctor," said Vega.

And then as soon as T'Var was about to speak, two Vulcans entered the facility. A Vulcan male, the ambassador's aide that Mel met at a party a few months ago, carried the ambassador inside. Even in his arms, she struggled beginning to say Jon's name.

On closer inspection, Vega thought neither Vulcan looked in excellent condition – both of their pallor glowed light green as if sickly.

"Ambassador T'Pol?" asked Vega.

The Vulcan carrying her – Skon – snapped immediately. "Do not touch her."

Immediately struggling against his restraints more, Archer lobbed threats at Skon where he promised to tear out organs with his bear hands if he didn't get his mitts off T'Pol. And as he did so, T'Pol clamored out of Skon's grasp and tried to head toward Archer.

"Doctor, I recommend you sedate the admiral minimally until we can drag them both to his cabin." As an afterthought the Vulcan turned to her. "I presume he has a cabin?"

"Yes," said Vega, already placing her hands on the restraints that bound Jon. "I think they'd have a great deal of privacy there. Its nestled in the bulkheads."

"Convenient." He then fixed his eyes on her. "Then shall we proceed?"

Mel nodded.

Hands worked feverishly to free Archer and when his restraints fell by the wayside, thanks to assistance from T'Var and Dr. Phlox, T'Pol's feet reached the ground. Jon stood and his eyes met T'Pol's; the ambassador's attention fell on him as if they were the only two in the room.

"I attempted to contact you," she said hoarsely. For some reason, it sounded like an apology.

Two fingers met – hers and his.

"Awww," said Mel. She may've had a thing for Archer, but she could recognize true love when she saw it, and this was it.

Suddenly, Jon's hand scooped behind T'Pol's hair and he brought her mouth roughly to his as if to swallow her lips and tongue.

Vega coughed politely.

Instead of either backing away, his hands roamed her back and small grunting noises, almost moans, left both their mouths.

"So, how do we get them to his cabin?" she asked.

Skon however seemed intent on watching the two kiss, an eyebrow poking up. "Fascinating."

_A little embarrassing if you ask me. _

"Doctor, I assume you have a sedative ready?" asked Skon.

The Denobulan watched, his eyes and head following the hands that now drifted over each other more unabashedly and his smile increasing at every grunt.

"Doctor?" asked the Vulcan again.

"Sorry, I would expect during mating that--" he said.

"Never mind that," said Vega. "The sedative."

Disappointment in his voice, he waddled off to his herbs. "Very well."

"Perhaps I can assist," said Skon.

Instantly, Skon's hand wrapped around T'Pol's shoulder and pinched until she slumped to the ground. Seemingly satisfied, he turned to Phlox.

"Perhaps we should--" he began to say.

A fist smashing into his mouth interrupted him and the blow was enough to fell the Vulcan. Archer stood over him, a sneer spreading over his lips and green blood on his knuckles.

"Don't touch her," he said. "I'll kill you."

Out of nowhere, T'Var's fingers wound around Archer's shoulder and squeezed until he tumbled to the ground as well. Skon dabbed at his lip and righted himself, his eyes on the admiral.

"That was unexpected," he said.

"It appears the human has similar mating instincts," said T'Var.

"Indeed," he said.

Vega knew better than to ask and snapped her head in Phlox's direction to stop that line of thinking from him. She then grabbed one of Archer's arms and hoisted him over her shoulder and she watched as Skon gathered T'Pol into his arms. Phlox grabbed a hypo and loaded it with two canisters, what Vega supposed was a stimulant.

"Follow me," said Vega.

The corridors were empty, making it easy for them to reach his room in only a few minutes. Vega instructed T'Var on how to open it, giving his passcode, and the door swished open. Gently, she rolled Archer onto his own bed, sighing, and watched as Skon did the same, propping her next to him.

Phlox intervened and placed a hypo to their necks and then the four quickly headed out the room and into the hallway. Vega swept a hand across her forehead and released a long breath.

"Should we lock the door from the outside?" asked Vega.

"No," said Skon. "Now, they have no reason to leave."

A thud in the room resounded – what Mel guessed was a body hitting a wall -- and objects sprayed onto the floor, echoing off the deck plating. Vega gave a small start and nudged a foot in the direction of Archer's quarters when she heard T'Var speak behind her.

"Opening the door now would be inadvisable."

Skon said, "Agreed. Everything is continuing as it should."

A frown cascaded over Mel's face at the news, wondering what the hell Vulcans did to procreate. But, before she could think on it further, she heard syncopated moaning.

"That was fast," she said with a wince.

"Perhaps we should allow them to continue in private," said Skon.

Vega nodded and she moved down the hallway with T'Var and Skon. As they reached the bend in the corridor, Mel realized Dr. Phlox was still behind and traced her steps to find him smiling at Archer's cabin door. Trying to ignore the furtive pleas from Jon's quarters, she waved two fingers and ordered Phlox to follow her down the hall. His head hung at his chest, defeated, and he complained quietly that humans were too embarrassed about their own mating rituals.

When they arrived in the Mess Hall, Vega contacted the Bridge to end the quarantine procedures and sheepishly indicated admiral Archer's quarters were off limits due to confidential Starfleet business. Levy sounded only marginally satisfied before asking about their dignitaries.

Vega said, "It turns out that Ambassador T'Pol is not ill. She's working with Admiral Archer."

T'Var and Skon raised their eyebrows in unison and Vega shrugged. Before Simon could ask anything else, Mel spoke into the intercom.

"Vega out," she said.

She grabbed a cup of coffee from the galley and offered Skon some mint tea, which he took. Together the four sat around a table.

"So, how long does this last?" she asked.

"Anywhere from three to seven days," answered Skon. "They should be left in their rooms. I doubt either would be hungry the first two days, but may welcome food on the third."

Mel sipped her coffee as she watched Skon. He was sweating too and his eyes seemed unfocused. Vega wondered if this Pon Farr thing was commutable like the flu. Just as she was about to ask, he pushed away from the table.

"I should rest. The journey here was harrowing," he said.

"Perhaps I can show him to his room?" asked T'Var.

Vega nodded and watched as T'Var touched his arm and spoke in Vulcan to him. Mel knew a few words, but couldn't quite make out exactly what was said. Whatever it was, somehow the sweat dripping from Skon's skin increased and Vega got the idea she should start making plans to find a replacement communications officer for the week.

She shook her head. No one advertised this kind of action in Starfleet: see the universe and get laid. Silently, Mel pondered the notion that they'd get more recruits that way though.

With that, she thanked the doctor and made her way back to the Bridge to order their vessel back to where she left the other two ships and tell Admiral Gardner she'd successfully picked up the two Vulcans.

Glancing at the chronometer above Levy's station, she sighed. It was only 1307 hours.

-----

Clarity came to Archer just when his body was too exhausted to move. Barely lifting his head from the pillow to gaze at the form next to him, he smiled.

_T'Pol._

Her fingers mingled with his and instantly he could feel the fire build again. Closing his eyes he reveled in it, even if it took him away from duty – an obligation that was miles away in his thoughts, because he was with her again.

Pushing herself onto her side, she regarded him and the look she produced made him believe that perhaps she was thinking just as lucidly. A thought rumbled in her mind and it perplexed him; they'd already talked about this about a week ago. And she'd declined him, something he learned to accept.

"What?" he asked.

Lips connected, tongues following, and her eyes glistened.

"Marry me," she whispered when they separated.

"T'Pol--"

Images flooded him as if she opened to him utterly and completely, unveiling to him the most secret of her thoughts. Everything, every emotion, every thought was available to him – hurt, disappointment, upset, love, anger …. Everything. He experienced everything almost as if he were T'Pol -- her mother's death, Elizabeth's demise and the end of Trip's life. Her emotions became his own, causing his eyes to water under the pain of it all and a tear hung on his lashes.

Suddenly there was guilt as emotions about Trip surfaced.

"You loved him, T'Pol," he said. "It's okay. I did, too."

It was a different kind of love – he shared a bond of brotherhood. Trip had saved his father's reputation by fixing the intermix ratio, helped him reach the position of captain and even gave his life to save Jon.

And so she could see how he felt, he opened up completely to her, allowing her to peer inside his very soul.

"Marry me," she said again.

And then he saw the feelings she had for him. Comparatively, her emotions were less confusing and less painful than those wrapped up in Trip, possibly because he was her first love; the emotion back then still perplexing.

"You satisfy my katra," she said.

Closing his eyes, he recognized the love she felt for him wasn't restless, but peaceful, enveloping her like a blanket.

Their minds, emotions and souls synchronized like a Swiss watch, perfectly aligned and attuned to each other. They had been for a while, maybe even when she'd served under him as a science officer before he'd admitted his feelings. And yet, now, they knew this was the ultimate that could be attained in love: friendship, companionship, equality, the sharing and challenging of ideas, self-sacrifice, complete understanding, compatibility and enjoyment of sex. More than eros or agape, this was a perfect one that had held off Skon's advances and kept Jonathan from successfully wooing another.

Jon had known, because he had fell in and out of love many times, that the way he felt for T'Pol was something special, out of a novel – grandiose and overwhelming. It was nice to know that T'Pol had that emotion mirrored in her brain and soul, allowing it to roam free in his mind through their bond.

"Marry me," she said.

His lips took hers and the mating fever overcame them again.

"When this is over," he whispered to her.

Her hands touched his temples, dragging his mouth to hers. "Phlox has a degree in theology, he may be able to marry us."

"The captain of a vessel can, too," he said. And then he frowned. "I don't think I'd want to do that to her, though."

He felt a tinge of jealousy creep through her body and she shook her head. "Let us not talk of her."

And they kissed again.

TBC

A/N: Shran will be in the next chapter. And Asearcher, you are excellent at reading the details; I was a bit afraid I'd buried that information.


	45. Chapter 45

A/N: I'm evil, but I'm not that evil! I couldn't just put Skon and T'Pol together. Anyway, sorry it's taken so long and thanks for being patient. Just as a warning – exposition ahead. I'm not completely happy with this chapter, but keeping it longer wouldn't really help.

-------

Shran opened his eyes and frowned. Turning in the bed to look at his wife, blissfully asleep, he thought maybe returning to his home world would be for the best. They _could_ raise their son there among other Andorians where he would learn the art of the blade and run on the ice fields. Maybe his son would even take up the garon, an ice sport than involved icicles flying at nearly 90 miles an hour.

Curling his antennae up, he felt his wife stir beside him. It was no use trying to keep anything from her, being a telepath meant she frequently knew what was on his mind sometimes before he did.

"Why don't you just tell the general you don't want to go?" asked Jhamel, sleep in her eyes.

"You don't tell General Krag no."

"Maybe this is a good time to start."

Sitting up, he planted his feet on the floor and leaned his arms against his blue legs, bare to the chilly morning air. Lowering his head to his chest, he pondered the day – going to Staron's hospital room and wrangling with the tarpig.

"Tell him you feel there is still work to do here," she said.

"Go back to sleep, my love," he said.

She sat up along with him and stuffed her arms across her chest as her blind eyes narrowed.

"No," she said. "Your thoughts are spinning and I know you're upset. I want to--"

"There's nothing you can do though. Really there's nothing either of us can do."

"You are thaan. Thy'lek Shran of Andoria a previous member of the Andorian Imperial Guard," she said. "That man, the man I married, can convince the general."

Shran barely turned his head and watched his wife. Her utter devotion was something he always loved about her, and he appreciated that now. Shaking his head, he pushed himself off the bed.

Jhamel seemed determined.

Ensuring her shimmering robe was fastened around her, she stood too and stepped as near as she could.

"Living on Earth has boosted your self confidence. I'm afraid …."

Gathering her into his arms, he nestled his head and antennae under his chin before kissing the crow of her white mane. Taking her long curls in between his fingers, he tried to reassure her.

"I still have friends in Andoria," he said.

She bristled in his arms. "Torak? He's no friend."

And then a thought occurred to him. "Jhamel, do you want to stay here?"

Looking up and only slightly over his shoulder, she bit her lip. "Our friends are here."

"Miranda can come visit."

"I'm talking about all of them. Miranda, Martog, Gral, T'Pol, Jon ….."

They kissed, it was longer than he'd intended and involved her attempting to touch tongues as she'd seen the humans do. He didn't mind that so much and stroked her antennae with his as they embraced. When they came up for air, he smirked.

"I'll miss them, too."

Jhamel said, "Then you'll think about staying?"

"You want our son to grow up gak-tragar – an alien to his own people?"

"I want our son and daughter to grow up where they have children to play with and are loved."

Shran sighed, a trait he'd picked up from the Pink Skin, and hung his head. The words were true enough and he decided then and there, he'd attempt to tell the general exactly how he felt and how important it was to stay – important to Shran and his family as well as Andoria.

The doorbell, a sound that still unnerved Shran, rang and the Andorian remembered Gral was picking him up to take him to the hospital this morning. Unfortunately, he hadn't showered or cleaned his antennae. Reading his mind, as his wife always did, she pointed to their bathroom – the one Shran kept promising to update to Andorian-style – and smiled.

"I'll ask Gral to wait."

As he headed into the shower, he knew Gral would – that's the type of friend he was. Of course, when Shran appeared, he also knew the Tellarite would grumble and complain about what a neatnick he was to shower and all.

Strangely, that put a larger smile on his face.

----

Mel walked around the Bridge, pacing, waiting. She'd been waiting for three days for the additional troops to show up without a sign from them hoping in a way they wouldn't show up soon; with Admiral Archer still out of commission it could prove embarrassing. Thankfully, Admiral Gardner had already alleviated concern by indicating the fleet was still in route and that their calculations gave another day and a half.

One more day and hopefully, she thought, Admiral Archer would be ready for duty again. She'd also hope that Ambassador T'Pol would be satisfied and that she and her aide could leave the ship. Vega didn't want to be forced to cart the ambassador and her aide into dangerous territory; that wouldn't sit well with the Vulcans. And taking T'Pol and Skon into Romulan space wasn't something she could exactly explain to Starfleet.

Glancing over at the replacement communications officer, Crewman Eric McCartney, she sighed. T'Var had been out sick for three days straight, probably with the same bug that kept the admiral and ambassador from showing their faces. Or Skon's for that matter.

Every day since T'Pol arrived, Vega had silently sighed in relief that her "assistance" with the admiral wasn't needed. It was too close for comfort; she'd already, in her mind, picked out her nice pajamas, not the sweat pants and t-shirt she was used to wearing to bed, and started thinking about shaving her legs and underarms – a ritual before the act she vaguely remembered partaking in before she broke up with her last boyfriend.

A beep sounded dragging her from her musings and the temporary Communications Officer put a dark-haired and dark-eyed man in his mid-forties on screen.

It was Captain Stiles.

He gave a small smile. "Hey. Since Captain Gardner thinks it'll take another day, maybe we can play hooky?"

Vega laughed. "Your men growing restless, too?"

"I caught my chief engineer using extra coils as hockey pucks in the Engine Room."

"I think they'll see action soon enough," said Vega. "I'm encouraging a little down time."

"Speaking of downtime, I hear Admiral Archer has been working around the clock. I'd heard that guy was devoted to his work, but …."

Vega smiled nervously. "Yeah, he's dedicated all right."

"I hear Panama has a good cook. Looking for a little company?" he asked.

"Sure."

"Good. Maybe we can convince the admiral to take a break."

"He doesn't want to be interrupted."

"I've hardly had a chance to talk with him since this mission began," he complained.

"Well--"

"At least ask him, will ya? I've wanted to talk with him about something for a while. We have a friend in common."

For some reason, she found her head bobbing as if she would attempt it, something he took to mean everything was set.

He said, "Great. I'll see you at fifteen hundred."

Vega's face sloped down and just as she was about to contradict, the screen faded to black.

_Great._

"Want me to let Cook know to expect the captain?" asked Simon.

There was something in his eye – a gleam. Stiles, one of the men captured – a man she and Archer helped to save – was a hero. While Duvall and was intent on blowing up the ship with its captain, Stiles evacuated the personnel and got some of them down on a planet safely. Though tortured, his psyche evaluation was good and the man, devoted to duty, took his promotion aboard the Constantinople.

_I don't know if I could jump back to duty so quickly,_ she thought. _Not after what he went through._

"Thanks," she said. And without further ado, she headed for her Ready Room and closed the door, wondering whether she should interrupt Admiral Archer to warn him.

-----

Archer looked in the mirror, tracing his fingers over bruises, scratches, a small gash above his left eye when T'Pol had tackled him and a swollen lip that had already dried with blood. He hadn't eaten in two days and only had sips of water while his body sweated and used the last reserves of energy. Despite looking like a shuttle crash victim and aching with exhaustion, he felt exhilarated. The sensation was one of winning the lottery. His skin tingled, his mind buzzed, his stomach fluttered and he couldn't stop grinning.

Though Jon Archer had done and experienced a lot of things in his time, he'd never in all his years felt so alive – not punching a hostile alien, kissing a woman passionately, hearing his heart roar at the sight of an Orion woman, passing his pilot test or winning the right to captain the Enterprise. Nothing could beat the ticking in his gullet.

The word he conjured to explain his own emotion wasn't nearly adequate to describe his joy: happy.

Bronze arms wound themselves around his bare chest and he saw T'Pol's head barely peek above his shoulder as if she was standing on tiptoe.

"You feel better," he said.

"Yes," she replied. "The need isn't as strong."

Closing his eyes, he took his hands and placed them over hers. Pon Farr was one of the most out of control, frightening experiences he'd even encountered – as if fire would've scorched his entire body killing him slowly and painfully until his life had been snuffed out. If the flames didn't kill him, he wondered if she would've – her nails digging into his skin, teeth ripping his flesh, and strength overpowering him many times to force him to the ground or against a wall hard.

Then, opening his eyes, he smiled. The flames hadn't killed him and certainly she hadn't.

So he kissed her.

Mouths and limbs tangled, having missed fitting together even though it'd been a matter of minutes rather than hours, just as a beep sounded overhead – the door. T'Pol furrowed her brow, her face flushed green and her nose twitched and he pressed his lips against her forehead to reassure her.

"It's her," said T'Pol.

"Mel?" he asked.

She nodded.

_How long have I been away from duty?_ he thought.

"I'll need you again soon," she said.

"I know." A smile crept over his lips. "You wanted to take a shower anyway …. It might give me enough to figure out what she wants."

The door chimed again and T'Pol's mouth gave a ghost of a smirk, her eyes blinking, before she headed under the showers spray. Somehow her jealousy, resounding through their bond, made him smile. The idea that he wanted Mel was ludicrous – even in the mating fever he'd only wanted her because she was available and because her features, dark eyes and hair with a plump mouth, reminded him of T'Pol.

Sighing, he put a shirt over his head long enough to cover his sweat pants and headed for the door on bare feet.

When the door slid open, he heard Mel gasp and he remembered how frightening he appeared with contusions and scratches covering his body.

"Mel," he said. "I know I look a little worse for wear, but really--"

A hand stretched toward him and in his mind he thought he heard his bondmate growl, so he stepped out of the way.

"Probably not a good to touch me," he said, his eyes heading back to the closed door. "She might smell it."

The remark met with quiet as perplexity smacked her face and Archer sighed again. For a second, he thought about explaining that Vulcans were sensitive to smell, especially during mating, and that every time he and T'Pol veered toward coupling it began with her sniffing at his neck more ardently than Porthos might. Not that he minded – he believed her nose tracing along his throat was sexy.

"Don't ask," he said.

"Not a problem," she said.

A laugh almost escaped his mouth until he remembered that the friend standing in front of him was the same woman he nearly spread out on his bed. Sheepish, crimson fled to his face and he suddenly had difficulty looking her in the eye.

"About before," he started. A cough followed him rubbing the back of his neck trying to find the right words. "I'm sorry."

Embarrassed, but eager to see if he was forgiven, he met her gaze.

"Yeah, me too," she said.

"You're all right?"

"Yeah."

He coughed again. "If you want to take this up with Admiral Gardner for a formal reprimand or --"

She rolled her eyes. "Jon, Phlox explained everything. I … I'm just glad everything's okay now."

"Is it okay? I mean … Mel, are we okay?"

He watched her narrow her eyes and then wince. "Well, it's weird, but … I'm willing to try and forget if you are."

"Me, too." _I hope I can forget it! Nothing like making an ass of yourself in public._

Placing her hands on her hips, she looked down one end of the hall and then the other.

"So, Ambassador T'Pol all right?"

"She's fine."

"She look like you?" she asked. And then at the question, she put her hands in front of her face and shook her head. "Scratch that. I don't want to know."

_That's good._ He didn't relish the idea of telling the captain under his command that Vulcans were difficult to bruise, but he managed to give her a massive hickey on her neck as well other myriad details.

"Listen, I dropped by to ask if you were hungry. Phlox said he'd take it to you, but he seems too … enthusiastic," she said finally, as if searching for the right word. "I figure you didn't want a bunch of meddlesome questions about … errr, what went on in there."

Archer grimaced. "I appreciate it. I'm famished, but it's hard to get away for food." And then he turned scarlet again. "You know."

It was her turn to cough.

She said, "Also, Captain Stiles has been getting antsy about seeing you and invited himself to the ship. He said you have a mutual friend."

"Miranda."

The woman in front of him jumped a little and she furrowed her brow. "You get around."

"No, it's nothing like that," he said, thinking it was a _little _like that. "Dr. Miranda Stiles works in Starfleet Medical; she gave me the green light to board Panama. Captain Stiles is her ex-husband or … it sounded like they were working through things."

"Well, he's looking to talking with you. _Tonight_."

"Tonight?"

"Yeah. Although, your appearance--" After a long pause she said, "You may have to tell him you were attacked by a Denebian worm."

He would've laughed under different circumstances, instead, he decided he'd just wear a turtleneck and figure out a good excuse for the gash over his eye and the split lip.

She said, "I planned on having dinner with him at around seventeen hundred if you care to join us."

"I'll be there." He paused. "Maybe you should invite Captain Gupta."

"I will. Actually, could you meet me at sixteen hundred so I can catch you up? It'll give Simon a chance to talk with Captain Stiles."

"Sounds like a good idea."

Nodding, she indicated she needed to do a few things and would send a steward to his cabin with some food – vegetarian in case the ambassador wanted to eat -- and then headed down the hall.

Stepping into his room again, Archer saw his bondmate who had what he knew was a frown on her face – there was a knot between her brows and her lips turned ever-so-slightly down.

"You're dining with her tonight?" she asked.

"And Captain Stiles. Maybe even Captain Gupta. I'm their commanding officer and I've been … holed up."

"Holed up?"

Smiling, he kissed her again to reassure her. "Holed up in a good way."

The heat that radiated from her when they touched lips nearly scorched him and staggering back he realized the mating fire was on them again. Although it wouldn't leave him enough time to head to Dr. Phlox for remedies for maladies like bruises, he decided -- in the embers of her Pon Farr -- he didn't really care. Before she tackled him again, he pushed her to the bed with dominance, something he'd learned that Vulcan women liked.

Her eyebrow twitched, a sign she would coil her muscles and attack, so he fell on her to pin him under his embrace. Not so oddly to him, he'd heard her to do so before, she cooed.

"Lifemate," she whispered.

-------------------

Shran waited in the Starfleet Medical with Gral for Staron to indicate he was ready. It peeved him to no end sit around on his duff for the Vulcan. Gral in the meantime grumbled under his breath about Staron.

"He wants to make us wait. It gives him the upper hand," said the Tellarite.

Just as the blue man was about to concur, a doctor indicated they could see the Vulcan aide. When they walked in, Shran felt his antennae stiffen with rage. In the room already seated in a wheelchair was Neville Simon, Earth's ambassador – the same one who'd insisted a group of aides and ambassador attempt to broker a deal with the Romulans for peace.

Neville Simon – the same Earth ambassador who led them into a trap, killing Starfleet officers and diplomats.

The balding, middle-aged man wore a smirk on his face as if this had been planned for weeks.

"Good morning," said Neville.

"What is the meaning of this?" asked Gral, snorting.

Staron narrowed his eyes. "Ambassador Simon--"

"I can't believe the Earthlings want this man to speak for them," said Shran.

"I understood you received confirmation about my position," said Neville.

He had, but it still flummoxed him to think Simon was Earth's choice. As if agreeing, both Gral and Shran grew quiet and silently, the Andorian wondered whether if T'Pol was here they'd be forced to deal with Simon.

"I understand the ambassador from Ithan is joining us soon?" asked Simon. "I see that as progress."

Gral snorted, "Only progress?"

"You have had considerable time and little results for your efforts," said Neville.

Shran was tempted to reel off the number of diplomats, like the Xindi, that wanted nothing to do with this effort because of the botched Romulan peace negotiation – the same one that landed Neville in a wheelchair, but held his tongue. Instead, he threw contempt toward the human. Gral must've felt the same way.

"Yes, the Ithanite's people agreed to sign _our _treaty," said Gral. "What concern is it of yours?"

"Earth has not signed this," said Simon.

"Here we go again," said Shran, hoping the mumble was loud enough for the Earther to hear.

Neville began, "I'd like to review the--"

"I'm in charge of this Council. I say what you do and when you do it," said Gral.

"You are being unreasonable," said Staron. "If this were Admiral Archer, no doubt you would allow him the opportunity to review the treaty. You would do so for any new ambassador, would you not?"

Shran pulled out a PADD and tapped a few buttons. "Here," he said throwing it in the lap of Neville. "But, we're not adding anything into the treaty. Ki'ar signed it and is already en route to act on it."

"I will have to review it before I decide what we do," said Simon.

Gral grunted and said, "If that's the case, the Council will move forward without Earth's interaction. Ambassador T'Pol spoke for Earth, at your prime minister's request. I assumed that would be enough for you."

Simon said, "I respect Ambassador T'Pol, but … she's Vulcan. I'd like to review it."

"Let him review," said Shran, annoyed.

Gral said, "Fine. But, you have _one _day. Ki'ar gets here in less than a week. His people don't like last minute addendums; we should prepare him for anything you change."

Simon frowned. "Very well."

"I suppose you want to review it as well?" asked Gral, turning to Staron.

Staron said, "I would. Although I trust Ambassador T'Pol, I would like an opportunity to review what she has agreed to."

Shran was tempted to let them struggle through what a visit from the Ithanites would be like, and he would've if he didn't like the little Ithanite so much. Instead, he and Gral found themselves going over protocol. Quietly, Shran thought that both Staron and Neville would be in for quite a surprise; it's partially what kept him and Gral talking – a smile lighting on their faces.

-----------

Jon headed down the halls toward the Captain's Mess, in casual gear including a convenient turtleneck shirt, feeling a spring in his step. Smiling to the beat the band, he slipped into the captain's lunch area. Mel stood up on his arrival and he waved her back in her seat.

"Sit down," he said.

Sliding into a chair, he grabbed a napkin and threw it into his lap. Immediately, he leaned over the table and took some bread from a basket and crammed it in his mouth; he hadn't known until just now exactly how famished he was until now. His hand wrapped around the water glass, bread still dangling from his lips and stuffed in his cheeks, when he felt Mel's gaze and looked up.

"Wh--?" he asked through his food.

"Hungy?"

Swallowing the food, gulping it with some water, he nodded. "Starved," he said, already reaching for another piece of bread.

"No kidding."

Chomping on the last of the morsel in his mouth, he gave a slight smile. Her eyes lit up with something and suddenly he recalled an inconvenient door chiming only three hours ago. Guessing perhaps she'd sent food exactly as she'd said she would and that he'd missed his opportunity, he shrugged. "Uhm, there was chime at our door earlier, but--"

"Save it," she said.

_I'll have to remember to bring back something for T'Pol._

A steward came into provide a menu – two options when he looked at the nearly depleted breadbasket. Mel intercepted any comment.

"Admiral Archer likes bread."

The steward nodded, too disciplined to comment, and left, providing Archer the opportunity to find out what exactly had happened in the past three days. Melanie described how they were still waiting for the rest of the fleet to join them – something that Admiral Gardner thought would happen within the next day. Picking up a PADD, she called out a list of various tests and drills run to keep the crew engaged. Apparently, she'd said, everyone was growing batty for something to do.

"You haven't missed much," she said.

"I'm glad to hear it. If we were in battle--" It was an unpleasant thought.

Slowly nodding her head, she leaned in. "Captain Gupta will be joining us, but later. He said he had something to wrap up."

As they chatted about work and engine efficiency, a beep interrupted them and Archer pushed himself from the table. A man a few inches shorter than him with brown eyes and brown hair – slightly receding – waltzed into the room. Sticking out a hand, he produced a firm handshake.

"Admiral Archer," he said. "It's good to see you."

Jon smiled. "Captain, I'm glad we have more of a chance to talk."

He delivered the same warmth to Vega, which impressed Archer. He'd always believed it was easy to suck up to the boss, but more difficult to get along with peers. The fact Stiles appreciated Vega only made Archer respect him more.

Discussing ship's business, including the anxiousness of the crew, they made arrangements for additional drills to occupy everyone's time and chatted about what the future might entail. Neither Archer or Melanie knew much, and what they did know they revealed much to the disappointment of Captain Stiles, who's face began to turn down.

"We're going into Romulan space, aren't we?" he asked.

Jon's face turned grim. "Seems so."

At that the three were quiet.

Dinner was ordered and delivered before the conversation turned personal. Stiles leaned over and pointed a fork in Jon's direction.

Stiles said, "You know my wife."

"Miranda?"

Stiles agreed, "We're getting back together. I figure I can say wife."

"I know her," Archer agreed. "She's my doctor."

Stiles chuckled. "I heard that's not exactly how you met."

Archer couldn't miss Melanie turn to him, eyes twinkling. "Oh?" she asked.

Jon said, "She befriended Ambassador Shran and his wife. Their daughter goes to the same school as yours." Jon tugged at his turtleneck. "Shran tried to set me up after your divorce, but nothing happened."

Stiles smiled. "Well, at least your story matches. It's okay, Admiral. She said it wasn't a love connection."

Mel turned to him, her eyebrows shooting up toward her hairline. "You do get around, Admiral."

He frowned, working up how to explain what happened to Vega before she deemed him some kind of ladies' man. By the expression on her face, she'd already headed down the Don Juan road.

Jon said, "It's not like that. I wasn't interested, but Shran wouldn't take no for an answer." When this didn't seem to convince her, he furrowed his brow. "You'd have to know him."

"I'm sure," she said.

Although he knew he was going to get shit later from her, he felt they had an understanding and then turned back to Stiles. Closing his eyes, realizing that the man might be offended by what was said about his wife, he tried to clarify that he'd thought she was attractive; he'd had already been interested in someone else when they were introduced.

"It's all right. Your loss is my gain," said Stiles, waving away the comment. Seriously, he added, "But, it's a small universe."

"Certainly is," said Jon.

Archer could tell Melanie was about to rib him again when a chirp sounded near her head. Jon chose that opportunity to scoop a forkful into his mouth noticing his plate was nearly clean already.

"Vega," she said.

"Captain Gupta is aboard, ma'am," said Simon Levy, the security guard.

"Great. Do you mind showing him here?"

"No problem. Headed to the Mess Hall anyway," he said.

"Thanks, Simon. Vega out." Mel without skipping a beat turned back to Stiles. "You have a little girl?"

"Sure do – Tonya."

"How old is she?" she asked.

"Seven. Just turned seven a month ago," he said.

Mel, bringing a glass of wine to her lips smiled sadly. "She must be glad you're getting back together."

"Sure is." Stiled said, "Family is hard when you're in Starfleet. You're never there for birthdays, never there for anniversaries, can't always contact your wife back …. Doesn't make for a happy home life."

Archer found himself listening to the information, wondering if that was his fate. Before he could inquire, Gupta walked in. Almost the same height as Jon with a shock of black hair, he had tanned skin and chocolate eyes. Jon didn't know whether men necessarily were handsome or not, but he figured this guy was striking.

"Good evening," he said.

Grabbing a seat in between Stiles and Vega, he sat down and unbuttoned the top button of his Nehru jacket. Leaning up briefly to shake hands with everyone, he eventually settled back into his seat.

"Thanks for inviting me," he said. "We usually have poker on Fridays, and I like to give the people under my command a chance to take my money."

Jon laughed, "That's not exactly the way I heard it."

Gupta grinned. "I wish it didn't quite happen that way. Ever since we invited Crewman Martok to join us, he's calculatedly cleaned my clock."

"Martock," said Stiles. "That sounds Vulcan."

"Crewman Martock is," said Gupta.

Jaw tensing, Stiles grimaced. "Me and the others sent by Ambassador Simon – we were captured by Vulcans!"

Alarm bells rang in Jon's mind and from the reverberation, he knew the claxons were also sounding in T'Pol's. Before he could stammer out a word, Gupta spoke up.

Gupta said, "The Vulcans have been our allies for more than one hundred years."

"Yeah," said Stiles, "But they kept back our technology. I'm telling you the Vulcans and Romulans are in league together."

Vega's eyes shot to Jon's and he took a deep breath. "You don't have any proof."

"You were there, Admiral. Did you see Vulcans?"

Warning, his gaze shot to Vega, silencing her with his glare. "We're not sure what we saw."

Vega agreed, "They could be renegade Vulcans. I've read reports of Vulcans who have no logic."

Stiles shook his head. "I'm telling you. The people who tortured me were Vulcan. They had pointy ears and green blood."

"I know you've been through a lot, Stiles. I also know you're one hell of a commanding officer, but your prejudice isn't welcome here," said Archer. "If you think I'm the kind of Admiral that approves of that--"

"You used to," said Stiles. "What's changed?"

Vega gave a small gasp.

As Archer was about to push himself from the table and launch into a verbal attack, he heard a voice in his head reminding him that perhaps at one time he was less tolerant of her people. More over, the voice prompted him that – indeed – her ancient brethren were the Romulans. To scoff loudly, T'Pol argued, would invite investigation.

Closing his eyes, instead, Jon spoke quietly barely holding the anger at bay. "Times have changed."

"Damned straight," said Gupta.

"I don't want this particular subject to come up again," said Archer.

"You've been spending a lot of time with Ambassador T'Pol," said Stiles. It wasn't a question.

"Your point?" asked Archer.

"I … heard a rumor that perhaps there's more than just negotiations between you."

Reflecting for a split second, Jon decided to face his junior down. "That's really none of your business."

The glee in Stiles eyes let Jon know he was about to claim victory, so to rob him of it, the admiral nodded. "But, since this is a friendly conversation – there is. We're married."

Gupta leaned in with more interest and Vega took a shallow breath.

The confusion on Stiles' face was worth the comment and Archer flattened his lips to suppress the thrill of delivering that shocker. "So, as your commanding officer – I'm telling you the Vulcans are our allies. As someone sitting at a dinner table with you, informally, I can tell you I don't want to hear that crap."

As if too embarrassed to continue, Captain Stiles stood and headed out the door with mumbled apologies. The minute the door shut, Vega's eyes found his.

"You're married?"

Jon shook his head. "It's complicated, but … in essence we are. We're just missing the formal ceremony."

Gupta smiled. "Congratulations, sir."

"Thanks," he said.

Vega sighed. "I don't get him – he seems like a nice guy."

"He's been through some difficult times," he said.

"I guess," she said. "The thing I don't get is -- his psyche test must've passed him for duty."

"Psyche tests don't weed out prejudice," said Jon. He knew firsthand. "He'll get through it. In the mean time, let's not let him spoil our dinner."

Jon noted to talk with T'Pol about that revelation. There were many reasons to keep the information from surfacing. If Stiles remembered what the Romulans looked like, then perhaps it wasn't too far off for others to find out the truth. Information like this was hard to keep clandestine in war. In addition, Vulcan was Earth's ally; by exposing them it would weaken the alliance possibly even causing a rift that could allow the Romulans to win. Denying the truth – lying - wasn't easy for Jon, a part of him wanted to agree and let Stiles know exactly what happened. It'd be easier for the man if he did; he might even be able to overcome his prejudice.

_It's not fair._

_Maybe Phlox could provide any assistance_, he thought.

Although the man had been released, it seemed there was still evidence of psychological trauma. Only one thing would help – getting it out in the open.

In the meantime, Archer decided to ask the cook if he could take food home. The growling and gurgling in his stomach wasn't his, but T'Pol's.

A/N: Next chapter - more Shran, the Ithanite returns, Romulan battles and more. Oh and sooner.


	46. Chapter 46

A/N: Thank you for all those dedicated people who've written in. Believe it or not, it really did push me to keep at it. I wrote a version months ago, and I just wasn't happy with it. You guys helped me hang in there. There is a natural Act III (which this is starting) and I sure needed a small break.

But back to the grindstone. Again, thanks for your interest!

-----------------------

The rest of the dinner between Archer, Gupta and Vega passed quickly and entertainingly, except for when Gupta -- in all decorum -- had asked why Archer sported a small gash and a fat lip. Although Melanie's eyes dove for her napkin, the admiral explained he'd taken a few unexpected spills. Thankfully Captain Gupta let the remark stand, despite skepticism spreading over his face and a look of panic crawling over Captain Melanie Vega's.

Getting up, Jon stretched, took his doggie bag of food – one created for a starving T'Pol -- and headed out the door. On his departure, Gupta turned to Melanie to ask more information about what Admiral Archer had brought up earlier that evening to fend off further racism from Captain Stiles – that he and Ambassador T'Pol were married.

"You know, I'd heard about the admiral and Ambassador T'Pol years ago, but figured they were merely rumors," he said.

Mel folded her napkin, laying it gently on the table, and turned to Gupta.

She said, "I don't think there _was _anything back when she reported to him. The admiral told me most of this happened over the course of the past year."

Even though Jon never told her that he'd harbored feelings for T'Pol a lot longer, she got the impression that was the case. What she knew of the man is that he never did things in halves; the man seemed to throw himself head-long into situations and once he committed to something, Mel knew he'd give it his absolute all.

"Hmmm," said Gupta interrupting her musings. "Well, it's better now that she doesn't report to him I suppose. I was never big on love in the ranks. Doesn't seem to work."

She shrugged.

He said, "I admire the Vulcans sometimes – able to leave their emotions behind."

It was then that Mel found herself smiling without meaning to and ducked her eyes from his gaze while tucking a piece of hair behind her ear.

She said, "I don't know. I've been aboard the ship with Ambassador T'Pol now and known her well enough to question if they really _do _leave their emotions behind. I mean – a Vulcan and a human? Seems pretty illogical to me. It's _got to _be based on something else."

Gupta laughed, the rich bass tones filling the room. When he quieted, he finally asked, "You're telling me that a Vulcan can fall in love?"

"Stranger things can happen I suppose – like befriending the Andorians and the Tellarites."

"Stranger things." He nodded and somberly added, "Like fighting an invisible enemy."

The two were silent as she pondered what would happen next – whether this would be her last mission. Going to Romulus was a fool's errand, and yet the allies had no choice. They were out of options.

Quietly the man across from her stood slowly. "I should get back to my ship."

She sighed. "Let me walk you there."

With that, the two chatted, small talk mostly, as they meandered down each corridor – Mel enjoying his company and deciding that perhaps this guy could be a friend.

----

When Archer got back to his room, he set his the leftovers from his dinner on the table and watched as T'Pol nearly jumped from her bed to eat. Scavenging through, tossing things aside, she quickly starting forcing pasta (including the tomato sauce) into her hands and slurping it down, reminding Jon of Porthos when given a plate of cheese. Crimson sauce dribbled down her chin and after five handfuls shoved into her mouth one after another, she glanced up to finally catch his gaze. Her brown eyes fixed with surprise as two slender eyebrows reached toward her forehead.

"What?" she asked.

Instead of repulsing him though, he felt his body become alive and his heart throb in his chest – energy restored to a sluggish body. Their bond strummed like the sound of a harp, melodic, and he found himself mesmerized by the way her mouth suckled her fingers, sauce still hanging around her lips, while her eyes remained on him.

"I've only seen you eat with your hands twice," he said, remembering her feeble attempt to enjoy popcorn with them and when he'd forced her to eat while they were captured on Coridan.

"I'm famished," she mumbled through a mouth full of pasta.

And then she dove her fingers to collect more pasta and sloppily brought it to her face to suck it down.

It was beautiful. Radiant. Despite sunken cheekbones, bruises along her neck and black circles weighing down her eyes, she glowed. Shining, glimmering like the moon, full and bright, hanging in a clear nighttime sky. She twinkled like the stars amidst the blackness when he'd camped as a boy – taunting and teasing him, demanding he dream of living amongst them.

He was in head over heels, crazy and desperately in love with her.

Watching her cram more of the meal into her mouth, an unintended growl began to form at the base of his throat. The sound shocked him and yet piqued her interest. She halted her actions, her nose twitching as if he released some new exotic scent. And then before his brain could fire neurons, sending signals to walk to her, his body began to move and his lips covered hers. Tasting her mouth, not just the sauce that still coated them, intoxicated him and he discovered he even tasted her scent – desert wind and burning parchment. Desire.

Mouths carnal and raw enveloped each other – his on top of hers, hers on tops of his – their tongues rolling as if to swallow the other. His hands, enjoying a life of their own, darted to her head to cup her face and then traced a line down her arm so that his fingers could play with hers. Hands danced against each other, index finger and middle stroking the other before moving to touch jaws and necks.

When they broke for air, short though it was, he laughed – his stomach tickled with the sensation of being on a roller coaster suddenly diving from great heights -- and she smothered his chuckle with her lips. As he gazed into her eyes, he imagined they smiled at him with the same pure joy he felt, and he shut his lids only long enough to relish that feeling. The two rubbed noses, him knowing that she liked the shape of what he secretly thought of as his oversized snout. And then his mouth nibbled at her bottom lip to suckle the taste of remaining sauce that he hadn't swallowed in his kisses.

Even though his body had dedicated itself to pleasing her every day, exhausting him, he could feel it capitulate to her again. The fire, the one that threatened to scorch him already several times today, sizzled without burning.

"_The mating fever is nearing its end," T'Pol thought. _

He brought her body closer to his, so near he could feel her heart beat, settled where the human diaphragm was, against his abdomen as his teeth and lips toured her neck. Hands rushed through his hair before two fingers of her hand ran across his chin.

"You told Captain Stiles we are married?" she asked.

There was tension in her voice, and immediately – ignoring the waves of desire – his mouth left her throat.

"We are," he said.

They were indeed life partners, but there had been no formal ceremony to sanctify it … no priest to ensure their minds stayed intertwined as T'Pol had wanted.

"Is it such a bad thing people know we're together?" he asked.

A hand cupped his cheek. "Of course not, Jonathan." Eyes searching his, she clarified her meaning. "You have not told Starfleet. And I have not mentioned anything to T'Pau. By revealing to Stiles that you are wed, information may be passed onto to our superiors."

"Demoting my clearance seemed to be a pretty good indicator that Starfleet was clued in," he said.

"It's more serious now."

"_Was it ever not serious?" he thought._

"It is time we tell them," she said.

"Now?" he asked.

Two fingers darted to his, her eyes seeming to scorch his flesh, so much so that he panted.

She said, "Not now. Tomorrow."

Eyes dark like fire, he saw her focus on him and felt his own body melt in the flames. Her lips attacked his again and as they touched tiny shocks traveled up his arms, to his head and down to his toes. Their lips merged with more intensity, capturing the others mouths as if their lives depended on it while their fingers wandered away from fingers to excite skin.

Parting, she backed up to lie on their mating bed and he towered over her his nose flaring like a predator sniffing the air for prey. The lust was dangerous now, filling his belly with want so deep it hurt like starvation. Dominantly, he grabbed at her hair and forced her mouth to his to take what belonged to him. In response, he felt her body go weak – pleased at his aggression: it was the way a Vulcan male would mate.

Tenderly, submissively, she encouraged him by letting her emotions zip through their bond – what he would call love. It told him that in her own way, she'd always loved him; hard earned respect had given way to friendship which had in turn led to admiration and eventually to something more. Past tears shed over his supposed-death in the Expanse, her worry about him being killed in the Romulan War, the devotion she showed to finding him so she could share her Pon Farr …. These were the acts of a woman who was his soul's twin; her actions and deeds were those of a woman in love. Although she didn't declare it like a human might, it was visible -- bare -- for him to see in perfect clarity now.

It made him almost laugh at his jealousy of Skon or the obstacles it had taken for them to get this far – for him to admit his feelings, to bond, to find love.

"I love you, too," he whispered.

A glint of a smile reached her eyes without marring her lips. "There are no more barriers between us."

"No," he agreed.

"Our journey had many winding roads," she said.

"Wouldn't have had it any other way," he said, pushing her to the bed.

----

Shran drove a shuttle, a large one meant for two children and the litany of equipment that accompanied being an Andorian father – safety seats for children, the harness he carried Shras in, a bag dedicated to a change of clothes and cloths for wiping up vomit, drool and other bodily fluids as well as a toy chest for Tallah. On Andoria, a vehicle would already be outfitted for these necessities with a few switched dedicated to hiding it between egg cycles. Andoria would never sport such an oversized vehicle on Andoria.

It was one of many things he hated about Earth and would simultaneously miss.

As he drove up to Gral's mud hut, one built on the outskirts of San Francisco in an "alien friendly neighborhood," he saw the little pig wave goodbye to his wife and head for the car.

"You're late, Blue," said Gral.

The Tellarite snorted and moved Shras' empty child seat from the front.

"I had to cook dinner before I left. Shras eats at human hours." And then he shook his head, his antennae wiggling with disapproval. "I don't know why Jhamel encourages the children to eat three times a day. You should eat when you're hungry, not by where the sun is located."

"Humans have so many strange customs," Gral agreed. "They sleep eight hours a day … but don't take advantage of a nap."

"The drink only after five o'clock," said Shran. "What sense does that make? Alcohol stimulates the blood."

"Yes, and they drink that brown liquid that tastes like the bottom of old shoes."

"Coffee," said Shran, nodding. "It makes my antennae curl."

"They eat food that has been long killed, and they don't participate in the hunt for food." Gral stroked his beard. "It does no honor to the animal you eat."

"Yes, I agree. I don't think they'd know how to spear a fish if their lives depended on it," he said. "Maybe it's because they keep some of the animals as … pets."

"Yes, and they don't eat them!" said Gral. "Why have a live animal at your house unless you intend to devour it?"

"They go on … vacations where they laze around and eat all day."

"They work eight hours a day, not when work needs to be done. I've never understood that."

"Oh, and … restaurants? I've never understood the idea of eating outside the home with people you don't know serving you."

"Yes. I hate those … except for buffets. I find allowing me to see what I'm eating before I choose to do so is beneficial," said Gral. "Also, these places usually chocolate pie. It's no Tellar delicacy, but it is tasty."

Gral snorted in merriment and Shran discovered he was laughing as well, it rumbling deep within his lungs as if he'd been aching to do so for a long time. The joy between them continued and soon they laughed merely because the other was happy. Within a few minutes, Shran dried his eyes when the mirth had run its course and his stomach had recovered from jiggling that accompanied cheer. The little pig looked over at him, his beady eyes glowing.

"I heard from my leader Tyr a rumor about that gem you showed me five months ago – that the Andorians the humans are working together on dilithium crystal technology for ships. Is that true?" he asked.

Shran tried to look defiant and then set his gaze back on the road. "Of course not."

The pig grunted and held his tongue until they reached the bar they'd been frequenting to escape from Staron or Neville – the Gray Goose. It was a shack of a place, no Vulcan – liberal or no – would show their pointed ears in such a place. The bar reeked of cigar smoke and stale beer, a cranky machine squawked muffled music and the drinks tasted slightly of dishwashing liquid. But the drinks were half-price and truly neither Gral nor Shran could tell the difference – human alcohol being so weak.

When a pint of brown liquid showed up in front of Gral, what the bartender announced was a porter, the Tellarite decided to speak up.

He said, "I'm hoping that the humans and Andorians wouldn't deceive us, Blue. It could hurt our alliance in the war."

"We know that. Why would Andorians and humans go behind your back?"

"Because although we're allies, your people never trusted mine and vice versa," he said, seriously. With a snort, he said, "It's a wonder we're friends."

Shran eyed the amber liquid in front of him, also beer, and then gulped it down as he would Andorian ale. "I never would've imagined," he said fondly.

The little pig started to lick the foam from his beer -- a peculiar quirk, but one Shran was used to -- before picking up the glass and quaffing it in a matter of seconds. A small burp left his lips and he patted his belly afterward to show his appreciation for the alcohol.

"I heard another rumor – that you were being reassigned. Is that one false too?" he asked, his eyes narrowing.

_Do these little pig demons have telepathy or is he listening to more of my conversations?! _

Shran started to deny that rumor too, when Gral finally waved his long, skinny fingers as if to shut the Andorian up.

"Martog spoke with Jhamel."

"Females," huffed Shran. And then the Andorian explained the reasoning. "Tares is ready for more responsibility and--"

Gral pounded his fist on the bar. "Pa-tah!" Getting the bartender, a short redhead, to get him another beer, he then stared at his friend.

"Without you the Council will be broken, and you know it," said Gral.

The Andorian was egotistical, full of pride and self-conceit, and yet he thought Tares would do wonders in his role. She got along well with Ki'ar and she might better negotiate with Staron and Neville. The only one she may not befriend with the same dedication was the little pig sitting next to him, the man who used to head the Council … the little alien that was one of Shran's best friends.

"Shras and Tallah should see their home," said Shran.

"Shras was born here," said Gral.

His antennae swiveled. "It doesn't mean he should be raised here. My son is Andorian. He should feel the ice flow beneath his blue feet, feel the snow pelting his face and the wind whip through his white hair."

Gral didn't seem to buy any of that, and began to place his tongue on the foam of the next beer served. "I can ask Tyr to help you stay."

Shran dragged a hand over his antennae in thought while the Tellarite spoke up again.

"Archer, Skinny and now you?" he said. "We've been through so much the four of us. You going … it wouldn't be the right thing to do. We are needed. We're all that's left."

"There's more to this alliance than the four of us."

"All we have are each other's word."

Shran disagreed, "We have treaties, leaders who believe in this friendship and money invested. General Krag is no fool – he won't back out, and neither will my queen."

"I can't deal with Staron and Neville by myself."

"Tares might be able to … sway Neville. He seems like someone who may like to be tyla-tora with her," said Shran. "It is hard to resist Tares' charms." The blue man spoke from personal experience then. As he put his lips to the edge of the glass, he heard the little pig beside him grow quiet, only whispering his next argument.

"I need you, Blue."

Shran raised his brows in disbelief and then saw the pig beside him grow a little teary-eyed before shuffling an elongated finger under his snout and then snorting. The rest of the Tellarite's beer vanished into his little brown mouth, leaving foam on his fuzzy beard.

"Let's not get sentimental," said Shran, feeling his ice veins thaw. Suddenly, a little water threatened to leak out of his eye and he straightened his spine. "I'm a member of the Imperial Guard, recalled to serve my queen. I have better things to do than play nursemaid to Neville Simon and Staron."

"And so do I, but as diplomats it is our job to deal with them." Gral's frown transformed for a minute. "That is your lot and mine, Shran. We are diplomats. And deities forgive me, but I find it to my liking as I suspect you do."

The blue man threatened to bluster, his hand on his ice blade as he worked up a saying that had permeated Andorian culture: diplomacy is for the idle. Just as he opened his mouth, he heard his voice betray him.

"Serving with you, the Vulcan and Pink Skin has been my greatest accomplishment." His antennae drooped slightly and then he frowned. "I've been on this drak-ed planet for too long. I'm growing as weak-willed as a human."

Silently, Gral's chubby arm made its way to Shran's shoulder and he held it there, his bony fingers cupping the Andorian's bicep. Rather than say anything, the Andorian quietly returned the gesture.

They both finished their next beer, mutely, their arms interlocked to show – at least if they were human – that there was a longstanding bond of friendship between them.

Finally when the next beer came their way, the two ended their camaraderie and Gral's eyes turned beady.

"We'll see about this reassignment," said Gral. "It'll be a dry day on Tellar when that happens."

----

A long, deep sigh left exhausted Vulcan lungs and T'Pol lifted her lids to suddenly embrace the tingles that ran along her skin. Relief.

_Sanity_, she thought.

It was good to have clarity of thought again. Although T'Pol's flesh still sizzled in delicious, exciting and fatiguing ways, her mind once again found snippets of reason and logic. Calculations, mathematical symbols and Vulcan runes seeped into her brain again, nudging utter chaos back toward the dark where the unkempt portions of her mind always remained.

Tranquility. Peace reigned again, allowing her heart and breath to slow to a steady pace. No longer did she want to tear out Captain Vega's eyes in jealousy or demand satisfaction from her willing partner. Instead, she felt the eerie calm like after sandfire struck, the landscape whipped and battered with clouds of red gathering in the air and settling on a hushed desert.

Her blood temperature which once burned hotter than flame, cooled. The thermostat that humans used – 34 degrees Celsius – began to chill her thin skin used to warm climes. Wrapping her fingers around the blankets gathered at her feet, she urged them over her bronze flesh.

The need to mate savagely, clawing at the man in bed beside her submissively as she begged for the ultimate release, eased. What replaced that desperate need was merely lingering desire. Not desperate. Not needy. Just enough to warm her insides and cause her mouth to fill with saliva.

Slowly opening her eyes, she gazed at the man beside her, a smile playing on his sleeping face. Sighing, she ran her fingers over his mouth, too irresistible to keep from touching, and watched him stir. Then she leaned over and provided Jonathan a kiss on the forehead, cheek and lips while his hand traced her bare back.

When his eyes opened, she stared into the green hue noticing freckles, lines and fractures where other colors – brown and blue -- attempted to invade. His eyes were one of his best features, how they sparkled or stormed at a moment's notice reflecting instantly his mood, transparently. Through their bond, she felt his pleasure at knowing that tidbit and to show it, he cupped his hand against her face.

"T'Pol," he whispered.

Closing her eyes, she nuzzled the hand at her cheek and then lowered herself under the covers facing him. The two were silent for several minutes, both gazing at the other in admiration and adoration. Jonathan was the first one to break the quiet that came over them.

"How'd you sleep?" he asked.

"_You already know," she thought to him._

"_Seemed like I should ask," he thought back._

"Well. Very well."

A smirk slid onto his face. "Me, too."

"I am … pleased to hear it."

He rolled over on his back and stretched, the covers sliding down his form to barely hide his navel from her view and she nearly frowned in disappointment. His belly button, as the humans would call it, entranced her greatly.

Amusement seem to spread across his face – his lips plastered into a half-smile, one she knew teemed with love and merriment while his eyes twinkled under the low lighting of the stars glowing nearby.

"My need has greatly diminished," she said. Even now the logic behind that statement stood tall and true, drowning out the fainter voice telling her that her urge would never die with this man.

"That's too bad," he said, his hand reached her damp hair.

"You have neglected your duty," she reminded him.

It was the first time she saw his eyes cloud over, the obligation of his job clinging to his form.

"That's true," he agreed. And then as if startled, he sat up. "I haven't missed anything, have I?"

Honestly, she stroked her fingers along his jaw in the Vulcan sign of affection. "I cannot be sure."

Quickly his hand reached for the button beside him and he smacked it with dedication as he spoke into the comm, the mantle of his rank beginning to settle over him again. A voice answered, quiet as if awakened from a deep sleep.

"Captain Vega," said the voice. T'Pol felt her hairs stand on end and her eyes squint in disapproval.

"Admiral Archer here. Status."

"Awaiting further orders, sir." And then as if shaking the sleep from her voice, she spoke with more clarity. "You and I talked about this at dinner. We've been asked to stay our ground for the time being."

"Right." He sighed. "You'll alert me if the condition changes?"

"Of course, Admiral."

"Thanks, Mel."

"Get some sleep, sir."

Before he could sign off, T'Pol found her hand wrestling his away from contacting her back and he gazed at her, fully understanding for the first time that he wasn't the only one jealous.

"You know I'm not interested in her," he said.

"I know."

His hands snaked around her form and he brought her closer to him. "It's just you and me. I know that now."

Vulcans formed a connection, T'Pol understood, deeper than any human could truly appreciate. Even when Trip had been alive, he too had misunderstood the depth of a bond – the connection between two people and the intimacy created when sharing thoughts. She was pleased, Vulcanly so, that Jon had finally recognized it.

"Me, too," he said. With that, he placed his lips on her nose. When she wrinkled it with confusion, he purred a laugh. "Although, it feels like it's not quite over."

"Pon Farr is less … all consuming now."

He smiled and then snuggled her to his body. Rather than resist, she nuzzled her cheek into the fur of his chest and felt her katra smile.

"From our bond I noticed you were concerned we had to mate on Vulcan." He paused as she glanced up at him, his green eyes catching hers. "My mind heard you comparing it to the salmon – spawning where it was born."

T'Pol eventually lowered her face back to the hair at his midsection and agreed. "Vulcans – as you know – are not away from our planet as long as I have been. Even Minister Soval returned to Vulcan frequently. I was unsure whether mating off-planet would ease my fire."

"And yet you did anyway."

"To not share my Pon Farr with you would be … illogical," she said. "You are t'hy'la."

Their lips met, almost of their own accord and she realized she was hungry again.

"The pasta is still there," he said. "There's a fork that came with it, if you wanted to use it."

She took in a deep breath, remembering her unending hunger and placed her fingers over her naked stomach. It rumbled, but didn't ache and starve as it once did. And then she ruminated on that idea. Pon Farr lasted seven days usually tapering off at day four; this cycle had only singed her flesh and boiled her blood for three days.

_Perhaps it is what is felt with a human._

"Is it always seven days?" he asked.

She startled a little, his ability to hear a thought she believed had been more secret, and then shook her head. "We have precious little information about Pon Farr, but that was my understanding." Gazing at her human companion, she let her lips fall by centimeters. "I hope I did not offend you. Humans--"

"You didn't," he said. She tried to speak to him again, when his hand flattened her against his form and hugged her there, silencing her. "Seems tomorrow I go back to being an admiral."

"And I should continue being an ambassador. I need to tell T'Pau of the change in our relationship and why I have been detained. And Minister Soval."

Jonathan smiled and for some reason her teeth nibbled at his flesh. She said, "You like the idea of me telling Minister Soval of our relationship."

"I wonder what he'll think."

"I believe he will find it agreeable that I did not perish under the fires of Pon Farr."

"I think he'll freak out," he said. When she started to open her mouth to disagree, he interrupted. "Vulcanly, of course."

"I thought you liked Soval."

"I do. I just don't think he or Minister T'Pau are ready for a the two of us."

"I don't believe Minister Soval will care." And then she paused. "And Captain Stiles and others like him?"

Jonathan shook his head. "That doesn't matter."

"Regardless, we should tell them in the morning."

"It's oh-two hundred right now," he said.

Her lips turning down, enjoying the warmth of his body, she disagreed. "I doubt they will be up." And the moment Jonathan tried to argue, his mind projecting that the Vulcans would be up anyway with their sleep scheduled and the time difference, she silenced him with a kiss. The gesture hushed him. When their lips parted, she watched satisfaction creep over his face and then turned her body as he spooned around her.

"I wouldn't want to inconvenience them," she said.

"Of course," he said, feigning agreement.

She felt his breath on her neck and heard the rumble that echoed through his nose, stuttering from his lips. Eyes closing, she welcomed the quiet that sleep provided, as she spent little effort thinking that she would meditate again tomorrow. Mind slowing, thoughts whisked away into the void, she sensed him drift into the deep unconsciousness before REM. Her body following, she suddenly became aware of a presence – like the echo of a presence – faint, like an apparition. It tingled like a smile from Jonathan, plucking the bond – the thread – that joined her and her human partner.

Knitting her eyebrows, she searched her mind attempting to determine what made itself aware.

_Have I imagined it?_

Turning to the man who slept beside her, she interrupted his slumber, just to ensure it hadn't been him that tried to wake her.

"Jonathan?" she asked in the darkness.

Her only response was a snore that increased in decibel.

"Jonathan?" she asked again. This time, she shook him and he came to life suddenly, snorting in the process.

"Yeah," he said groggily.

And then the feeling, the ghost, vanished. Like a candle that barely flickered, snuffed, she found no traces.

A barely noticeable frown threatened to mar her face and she sighed humanly, wondering if the "presence" she'd experienced was more the result of spending three days without meditation.

_My mind is in disarray._

Nodding, knowing that was the most logical conclusion, she decided to spend time tomorrow – even before she contacted Ministers T'Pau and Soval – in Vulcan reflection.

"What is it?" asked Jonathan again, his voice still drowsy.

Pushing her back into his chest, she felt his arms snuggle her to his chest and then a quiet snore leave his lips.

"Never mind," she said. And then T'Pol fell into a dreamless sleep.

TBC


	47. Chapter 47

Melanie Vega got ready for work and then wandered the corridors from her room, one after another, heading to the Captain's Mess. With each step, the emotion she felt most keenly was worry. Worry that at 1000 hours, she would receive the scheduled call from Starfleet – one that Admiral Gardner had already arranged – to give orders that would probably send them to Romulus. Worry that after three days at dead stop, her crew was growing lax. Worry that during the call, Admiral Gardner would ask for Admiral Archer and that she would have to explain that Admiral Archer was still ... indisposed. Worry that they'd have to follow Gardner's orders without Archer.

It didn't bode well.

She made a mental check to ask Phlox, after breakfast, to drag the admiral out of the Vulcan mating fever using whatever means possible. They needed him operating at 100 capacity. Although she cared about her friend, Panama's crew was counting on him and so were the allies in the war.

_The war is going so poorly – a defeat now might be Earth's doom._

Rounding the final corner, she headed into the Mess Hall and greeted her crew before making her way into her own private dining room. The moment she set foot onto the gray carpet, she stopped in her tracks. Admiral Archer was already seated at the table – a little worse for wear – nibbing on a piece of toast.

"Good morning," he said. "I hope you don't mind I nabbed something to munch on."

Warily, she continued into the room and sat the chair next to him. "Good morning."

He smiled. "This steward heard I liked bread and brought this out."

Under normal circumstances, she would've joined in on his merriment. Now she couldn't.

"I read over many of the reports this morning, trying to catch up and --" he began as if nothing had happened.

"Admiral?" she asked. Although she was relieved he wouldn't be indisposed for Starfleet's call at 1000 hours, she still held onto worry.

"Yes?"

A few days of confusion and frustration finally exploded. She'd given him a lot of leeway – letting him drop bombs about being married (even with Captain Stiles in the room), wander around the halls in a daze with bruises scattered over his skin and hole himself up.

She sighed. "What in the hell is going on? Are you better? Can we count on you?"

Instead of letting the smile drift from his face, Admiral Archer kept it there. Silently, he wiped his napkin across his lips as if to collect any stray crumbs and then slowly tossed it back into his lap.

Before he could answer, she continued. "I mean, T'Var – not that I've seen her in a few days – told me you and Ambassador T'Pol are in some sort of mating fever and Phlox explained it, but ... And then I see you covered in bruises and wonder if you're in any condition to help--"

As if her friend had completely returned, a hand drifted up to stop her. Calmly, almost Vulcanlike, he began.

"I promised T'Pol I wouldn't talk the Vulcan mating cycle."

Vega said, "I'm not interested in that, I want to know--"

"But I want to answer as many of your questions as I can. T'Pol and I are linked and this bond is like a marriage," he said. Mel knitted her brows and he responded, expounding. "By participating in the mating cycle with her and sharing a bond, I now feel her every thought. To Vulcans, this intimacy is marriage. We're just missing the formal ceremony."

He went on to describe the bond – like having someone's thoughts always and immediately available and accessible; no secrets could be hidden. At first, he admitted the idea of them sharing every mind murmur frightened him, but soon he found it comforting. Because T'Pol knew him entirely – his every action and reaction – he said she had context for his feelings. More over, through the bond, he described being able to discern her feelings – something he confessed he sometimes didn't understand. For months, he told Mel, he assumed she didn't want to marry because she did not want him. With their every notion shared, he realized though Vulcan she'd loved him. It had been part of the reason she had nearly sacrificed herself to save him from death when he'd crash landed on the planet many months ago.

Mel didn't quite grasp the details, but she understood the theory.

"Soulmates."

"In a way, yes. It's unification," he finally said. "It's going to sound corny, but we complete each other. We're ... one."

Melanie gaged Jon had been right – that she wouldn't be able to fully understand, but his attempt made her feel better.

"As for how I'm feeling," he said, "I feel as normal as I did before this began." And then he took a sip of his orange juice.

"Panama can count on you?" she asked.

Leaning in, his countenance serious, he nodded. "I'd let you know if I was unfit for command. I know what we're up against."

Cocking her head to the side, she noted he did indeed sound like his old self.

"I'm expecting orders from Gardner at ten hundred hours," she told him.

Jon nodded. "I remember."

Relieved, she decided to address an earlier comment he made. "Are you going to have a formal ceremony?" she asked. "I get the impression you won't have a lot of time."

"Not now. T'Pol needs to get to Vulcan. She wants to establish additional council membership and Ambassadors Gral and Shran are counting on her. And I need to focus on this ship, our fleet and the war."

His smile grew. "Besides, she's always with me," he said, pointing to his head. "In here."

"Still," she said.

"Mel, I'm not just being figurative," he said. As his mouth opened to provide more details, a hail came in.

Melanie quickly stood and headed over to the box, punching the button. "Captain Vega."

"Transmission coming in," said the beta shift communications officer. "It's from Admiral Gardner."

"I'll be in my Ready Room in five," she said. "Transfer it there."

"Aye," she heard.

When her hand moved from the button, she looked over at Jon.

"I thought you said Admiral Gardner was contacting us at ten hundred hours?" he asked.

"That's right," she said.

The worry began to creep back into her brain. As if to acknowledge her concern, Jon frowned for the first time during their meeting.

"Can't be good news," he said.

With that, the two ended their breakfast before it started and ran down hallways to get to the Ready Room for further orders.

--

Gral got home near midnight after a night on the town with Shran. As he stumbled into his condo off Union Square in the fashionable part of the city – a place he detested – his snout twitched. His nostrils detected Sixth Meal waiting for him – pork with red sauce dribbled onto it – prepared by Martog.

The Tellar female, his spouse, fluffed the apron around her middle and greeted him at the door. Immediately they rubbed snouts, with passion.

"You didn't have to put yourself out," said Gral.

Sharing in the argument, his wife cooed. "I never put myself out for you."

Then without any more banter between them, they headed to their plates to enjoy the food. Both hunched over their pork eating with their slender fingers, the two remained silent, typical for Tellarites (a species that reveled in the process of eating). Yet, during Sixth Meal instead of finishing his meal, Gral poked at the meat with a grunt.

"I am no fan of farm-raised pig either," said Martog. "But I thought at least preparing it in its own blood would please you."

Gral stroked his beard unwilling to disagree with his wife. "Your style is as good as can be expected for animals not hunted."

"Then something is troubling you," she said, putting down the slab of meat.

Pushing his plate back, Gral folded his long fingers across his belly.

"The Andorian government has recalled Blue ... Shran," he said.

"Is that possible?" asked Martog.

"These days it seems anything is possible." Pausing only to stifle his anger, he eventually continued. "Shran didn't say how long he has left here, but ... I do not think it is long."

"Who would replace him?"

"Tares."

"The tall Andorian female?"

"That's her."

"The one you said he wanted to mount?"

"He did at one point, yes."

She considered the information for a moment and pursed her lips, smeared heavily with human lipstick.

"Maybe you should suggest negotiations begin with Tares then," said Martog.

Gral squealed. "Don't you understand, woman? Shran is a superior diplomat. Ki'ar would never have agreed to take the treaty to his people if it had not been for the Andorian from the Imperial Guard."

"Ki'ar likes women and--"

Gral pounded his fist on the table, nearly making Martog spill the wine she swilled.

"Tares is not like other Andorian woman. Although she is strong physically, she does not have the ragnok of Shran. Ambassador Simon and Aide Staron need a firm grip on their hides. Blue can help me do that."

Martog seemed sympathetic, but shook her head. "You cannot change the general of Andoria's mind. Maybe Shran can talk with him."

"I believe he has tried."

"Then it seems pointless."

"It's never pointless!" Gral scooted away from the table before standing, a snort on his lips. "I can contact Tyr."

"Tyr is a Tellarite, not an Andorian," she said.

"I know," he growled.

"Our people still don't trust the blue demons."

"And yet ... I must try. For Blue." Pointing a skinny finger into the air, he pontificated. "I am an ambassador from Tellar. I have attended the finest schools for argument known to Tellarites."

Martog seemed to wait with baited breath.

Gral shouted, "I will give Tyr the argument of a lifetime!"

Instantly, as if he could not be swayed, he marched into his den and before closing the door yelled to her.

"Bring me water, my pet. I will be in here some time," he said.

--

It was a bleak day in San Francisco, rainy and foggy. Usually the weather like that cheered Shran up because it reminded him of his ice home. Today, it annoyed him. Grumbling from one morning activity to another, he eventually got dressed and headed over to the meeting location the council had been using.

Shran arrived only to find Ambassador Neville Simon, the annoying representative for Earth, loudly sipping a cup of coffee. The skinny bald man peered at his PADD with a crooked smile, thumbing through information. If Shran didn't know any better, he'd guess that stick-in-the-mud ambassador was enjoying himself reading whatever was at his disposal.

Antennae drooping at the thought of spending time along with the tarpig, Shran slid into the seat next to the ambassador.

"Gral's wife contacted me. The Tellarite will be late," said Shran.

"Staron had other matters to attend to this morning as well." Neville hesitated. "It appears the Vulcan ambassador had not arrived on Vulcan at her scheduled time."

Immediately the Andorian straightened.

Neville said, "I have heard that she rendezvoused with the Panama – the ship Admiral Archer is on."

One antennae managed to poke into the air as a sly grin slid across the blue man's face.

"Probably looking for another opportunity to get tyla-tora with the Pink Skin."

Ambassador Simon scratched his bald head. "Tyla-tora?"

Shran rolled his eyes, a human habit. "Mate."

Simon raised his eyebrows only slightly and then removed his glasses, cleaning them on his shirt.

"Actually, my sources indicate that was exactly what happened," said the human, nonchalantly. "Admiral Archer and Ambassador T'Pol are putting the war in danger to continue their liaison – one they denied many months ago to everyone at the council."

"Keep your skin on," said Shran – certain he'd gotten the metaphor right. "What happened between the admiral and ambassador is recent. Trust me, I know."

In fact, the blue man believed their union had been only too recent. If Shran had his druthers, the pair would've been tyla-tora the night of his reception.

Shran said, "Besides I _know _the Pink Skin. He _wouldn't _sacrifice the war to mate."

"Captain Stiles told he would," he said. "He told me that he and the Vulcan ambassador or married."

_Then a baby cannot be far behind,_ thought Shran with a smile.

"You may find it amusing, but as the Earth ambassador, I find the news disturbing."

"Why?"

"We cannot have the Vulcans know our military secrets."

The Andorian understood that part, but knew T'Pol could be trusted. "T'Pol used to work for Starfleet."

"She changed her allegiance to Vulcan."

"I think if she's married, her allegiance is with Archer," said Shran.

"I'm not convinced," said Neville.

And then a notion occurred to the Andorian. Neville had mentioned a name that sounded familiar, like one of the humans assigned to a ship carrying delegates who wanted to reason with Romulans. It was the ship that was destroyed with few making it back ... including Ambassador Neville Simon.

"Stiles?" he asked to be sure.

Neville nodded. "He's in the fleet with Admiral Archer and a personal friend."

"Sounds like he betrayed Archer to me," said Shran under his breath.

Simon waved off the attack and then sat back, placing the glasses back on his pointy head.

"I'm actually glad I have you alone. I wanted to discuss the dilithium crystals," he said. "Admiral Gardner is ready to partner on your war vessel."

Shran immediately frowned, slumping in his chair. "I think we should end our secret dealings and bring the Vulcans and Tellarites into this. It feels dishonest to continue without them. We're all allies."

Neville shook his head. "The Vulcans and Tellarites would deal with each other behind our backs. We're merely guarding our planet's protection."

"Protecting our planets from our allies?"

"I've heard Klingons have a saying – whoever you sleep with tonight will be fighting you tomorrow," said Simon.

Shran smirked. "That's not exactly how it goes. 'Whichever female is pleasing you in bed tonight will be drawing her blade against you tomorrow.'" The blue man grinned more. "And it's meant as a warning not to sleep with strangers. I believe one of their early civil wars started that way."

Letting his mind drift to Klingon females, he wasn't sure why a Klingon male would want one pleasing him anyway. Female Klingons typically had facial hair, voices deeper than a slar's growl and were as argumentative as Tellarites.

Neville Simon huffed. "No matter. We need to protect our planets. Obviously General Krag agrees and you've already spoken to Admiral Gardner regarding this."

The Andorian grumbled. "Yes."

"We'd like to see the warship completed as soon as possible."

"If we brought the others in--"

"I am not yet prepared to bring the others in." Grabbing his PADD, Neville handed it to Shran. "These are the names of our scientists who can begin working on this. We're making this a top priority."

"I believe the Tellarites know," said Shran.

"You told Gral?"

"No." Quietly, he admitted, "I wanted to."

Simon shook his head. "Gardner also said you might be replaced by Tares. Is this true?"

His antennae squirmed. "It is not decided," he lied.

"I want you to set up a meeting between us as soon as possible."

Narrowing his eyes, his antennae leaned forward. "You can handle your own schedule."

"You are the ambassador for Andoria – you should arrange it."

"Arrange it yourself," said Shran. "I am Andorian. Just because my people are coordinating with you on the dilithium doesn't mean you own me. I'm not in your pants pocket."

"I think you mean back pocket."

Shran's antennae stiffened. "Whatever. You contact Tares."

"You have a lot of animosity in you," said Neville. "Maybe Tares will be more amenable."

Feeling dark blue tinge his cheeks, he watched the Earthling. "You hired a spy to work under you – someone in league with the Romulans."

"We were all duped."

"No one's as big of a dupe as you," he said. "You led delegates to their death trying to negotiate a peace treaty with Romulans."

"We had to try."

Shran sneered. "I warned you. Gral warned you. Archer warned you. T'Pol warned you. You just refused to listen. You must have der in your antennae ... uhm, ears!"

"In our short time working together, I've found you extremely uncooperative. In addition, your devotion to Archer, Ambassador T'Pol and Ambassador Gral hinders your ability to do your job. Krag was right to replace you. I'm asking Gardner to recommend you are dismissed as soon as possible."

Knocking his chair over, Shran's hand instinctively went to his blade. "You're about the biggest tarpig any Andorian has ever had to suffer. Earth did themselves a disservice when they instated such a scrawny, know-nothing human like yourself to represent them."

"Coming from a gem thief, I find that particularly rich."

Suddenly, Shran's blade came free – the light shining on it. The Andorian felt the thrill of the fight spark in his blood, like when he donned his black leathers to war against the Vulcans as a commander of an army. Blood thickened in his veins as he thought about those olden times, when led his troops to free the planet Andoria – the queen herself – rightfully claimed. The hint of a smile touched his face.

It had been a long time since he had killed. No pang of guilt would fester in his stomach if he were to end Neville Simon's life here and now – red blood spilling on the floor of the room they used to discuss alliances. Earth would indeed be better off without him.

"Go ahead," said Neville. A glint formed in the bald man's eye and as Shran felt his hand yearn to strike out, he instead holstered his weapon.

"You want to fight," said Shran, suspicious.

"You're out of your blue mind," said Neville.

With that the skinny man left.

When the door closed, Shran sank into the chair he occupied. "Why start a fight?"

_I wish Gral were here. _The Andorian would discuss the exchange with him, leaving out information about the clandestine agreement over the dilithium, to determine what advantage Simon was looking for.

Shran knew something was amiss.

--

Archer and Vega arrived in the Ready Room quickly, the two of them running down halls. Jon knew what awaited him were orders – information finally on what Starfleet expected after a three-day delay ... even if the information was sooner than they'd expected. Melanie ran to her desk and immediately jabbed the button to display Admiral Matt Gardner's face on the screen before them.

"You're both here," he said. And then he did a double take. "Jon?"

"Long story," he said in response. "I'll explain later."

Matt didn't seem to appreciate that information, but for the time being left it alone. His jaw clenched. "A few minutes ago, the Shirka – a Vulcan ship – indicated a fleet of Orion and Romulan ships were on an intercept course with your fleet."

Melanie stood.

"A fleet?" asked Jon. "How many?"

"We don't know," said Matt. "We've calculated they should reach you by thirteen hundred."

"We could try to outrun them," said Melanie. "From intelligence we have faster ships than the Romulans."

"But not the Orions," said Archer.

"We've sent reinforcements to meet you, but we're not sure if they'll reach you in time," said Gardner, heaping on bad news. "We're anticipating they'll be there at seventeen hundred."

"That'll be too late," said Melanie.

Archer, his voice strained, said, "We have he Vulcan ambassador and her aide aboard."

Gardner nodded. "Minster T'Pau is not pleased with these circumstances, but for some reason hasn't raised the ruckus I expected her to. Panama is ordered to protect the ambassador."

"Of course. Understood," said Melanie. "Is there anything else you can tell us?"

"We have very little data." Matt frowned. "The information that our enemy is headed to you was the last transmission the Shirka ever released. The ship was destroyed."

"We may've lost our element of surprise," said Melanie. "_If _we were going to be ordered to attack Romulus."

Archer felt his stomach churn – his own reaction to everything Matt said as well as T'Pol's. "Maybe the Romulans anticipated we'd be heading to Romulus and sent a fleet to meet us."

"You mean someone tipped off the Romulans?" asked Melanie.

Matt agreed, "I've already sent a head's up to our President. We'll get to the bottom of things. In the meantime, I expect to hear from you the moment you engage the enemy."

As soon as the screen went black, Melanie ordered tactical alert.

Soon the ship's alarm sounded and Archer felt T'Pol in his mind. Out of habit, he spoke the words aloud. "Stay in my room. Gardner believes we're going to come under attack." And as much as he hated thinking about Skon, he knew the aide was also under Panama's protection. This time he projected a message to his bondmate. _"Ask Skon into the room, too._"

Melanie looked back at him. "What?"

He shook his head, concentrating on T'Pol.

"_Be careful," _Jon heard in his mind and then turned his attention to Melanie.

"Captain Vega, inform the other ships to man long-range sensors around the clock. Maybe someone will slip up on one of their ships and decloak long enough for us to pinpoint them."

Mel agreed. "Yes, sir."

Before she headed off to follow his order, Archer stopped her. "You know if one of the ships is destroyed the nuclear arsenal its carrying ignites."

The captain's face turned long. "I know."

"If we're going to protect Ambassador T'Pol and her aide, we need to be as far away as possible from that explosion."

"What do you suggest?" she asked. "We send the other ships in to fight without us?"

He sighed. "I don't like it any better than you, but I'm not sure we have a choice. If the ambassador to Vulcan dies--"

"I think you have a conflict of interest," she said. The word were said softly, as if reminding him of his duty, but with sympathy.

Narrowing his eyes, he watched her. "You heard Admiral Gardner."

"Jon, if T'Pol does die, Minister T'Pau will find someone else – just like our president managed to get someone to replace you as ambassador."

"Gardner said she's needs to be protected."

"I'm taking Panama in," she said. "I'll ask our helm to have the foot on the gas to get the hell out of there in case things get dire."

The admiral realized he'd already walked up to her to stand over her, looming. "We've argued about orders before and every time I've been right. I'm telling you, to follow--"

Quietly, she interrupted. "You know it's not right to let them face the Romulans and Orions alone. Think about it."

As Jon was about to answer, a response formed deep within his mind and then echoed in his heart.

_She's right. _Putting a hand to his forehead, he nodded. "I'm glad Travis is at the wheel. We'll need him to act with catlike reflexes to get everyone on Panama out alive."

Melanie nodded and then left to relay orders to her crew as Jon made his way to the command center. When the door closed, Archer thought about everything over the past few weeks. Their journey, long and arduous, all boiled down to dying in a nuclear reaction caused from their own weapons.

Archer didn't mind his own demise. When he was assigned to this mission, and every mission before it, he assumed it was an eventuality that his end would come to pass. What seemed wrong was that T'Pol was shackled to his fate. The Vulcan was younger than middle age and had nearly a lifetime before her. More over, she was desperately needed by the council; Gral and Shran weren't as level-headed or logical.

It angered him that she had to share his doomed destiny.

Suddenly his mind rang out. _I will share your destiny. By your side._

"No," he said. "You'll be safer nestled in the bulkheads."

The words were futile. In his mind's eye, T'Pol contacted Skon telling him to enter the safety of his room and then made her way through the maze of hallways. With nearly every step, Archer warned, asked, told and then begged her not to join him. Just as he bowed his head, pleading with her one last time to listen to him, he heard the door swish open.

"Despite my vestiges of diplomacy, I'm not helpless. In fact, I used to be your first officer," she said.

"T'Pol--"

"_Used _to be your first officer. Fortunately, I don't take orders from you now, Admiral."

"You still have the remnants of your fever," he told her.

Ignoring his words, she looked over at a map and contemplated it.

"You're not listening to me," he said. "You're not entirely well and you're the ambassador of your people. If something happens to you, Staron will probably take over for you. You don't want that. It's not what's in Vulcans best interests."

Closing in behind her as she continued to study the map, he said more. "I want you to be safe. It would help me better concentrate on the job at-hand, T'Pol."

Still she remained riveted to the map in front of her.

"T'Pol?"

Pointing to an area on the starchart, she turned back to him. "If we hide in this nebulae, it might provide us the element of surprise."

"Our sensors will be down," he said.

"And so will theirs, but in the meantime, we'll be ..."

He produced the hint of a smile. "We'll be cloaked."

"Yes," she said. A gleam in her eye, she gazed at her bondmate. "You were fortunate to have me as your first officer."

A chuckle left his lips. "Never doubted it."

"You are more fortunate to have me as a bondmate."

"I've always been damned lucky."

An eyebrow raised. "We'll need that for the approaching battle."

Losing his mirth he nodded. "Yes we will."

Leaning over the communications device, he relayed the new plan to Captain Vega. Soon after, the three discussed the details of what would need to happen before thirteen hundred when the Romulans and Orions approached.

TBC


	48. Chapter 48

Gral emerged from his den at nearly 10:37 a.m., his voice hoarse, hair sticking out in all directions and squinty eyes carrying dark brown circles under them. Scratching his tummy, he waddled out to the circular couch in the living room and parked his rump on it.

After debating for hours on the virtues of asking Andoria to keep Shran on Earth, he'd gotten absolutely nowhere. Tyr had questioned the idea of friendship between a Tellarite and an Andorian, bringing up years of conflict and hatred between them. He'd told Gral that creating an alliance and establishing trust had been necessary, but that he'd "be a fool" to let personal friendships get in the way. More, the leader of the planet Tellar had complained about being disturbed for such an "inconsequential matter as the replacement of a diplomat."

Gral had tried to explain his reasons for wanting Shran to stay went beyond "friendship" -- that the Andorians had been allies during the times when few others believed in the council. That Shran had personally helped to keep the council together and was needed to deal with the ambassador from Earth, Neville Simon, and an aide from Vulcan, Staron.

Tyr saw no value in that, claiming the humans were the most acceptable allies they'd encountered.

The discussion had been fruitless and ended abruptly with Tyr angrily conveying that if Gral called with another such request, he'd be sent to the farthest reaches of Dengar VI – a mining colony that the Tellarites occupied.

Tired, Gral laid down – his pig feet kicking in the air – as he thought about next steps. Closing his eyes, he heard a knock.

"Gral, it's me!" said Shran. "Open up."

"Blue?" asked Gral.

Pushing himself from his couch, he heard the door pound again and grunted to himself that the Andorian was one of the least patient aliens he'd ever met. When the door finally opened, Shran scooted past his antennae standing erect and a dark azure streaming across his face.

"Ambassador Simon is a tarpig I'd like to challenge in a death match! You should've heard what he said to me today," said Shran.

Gral wearily headed back to the couch to listen. "What happened?"

The blue man recounted a story in which Simon seemed to pick a fight, daring to be killed with the blade always at Shran's side. The argument escalated until the Andorian nearly gave into the unspoken request before Shran stopped himself and Neville made an escape.

"We cannot afford the council to fracture," said Gral.

"I think Simon is a spy!"

Gral groaned. "I don't like him either, but I doubt he's a spy."

"Think about it," said Shran, twisting his fingers thoughtfully over one antenna. "He was one of the few saved after trying to head toward Romulus to negotiate, talking many in the council to join him."

"Coincidence," said Gral.

"His aide was a member of Terra Prime – someone who tried to kill us."

"Having unfortunate hiring practices and poor judgment doesn't make him a spy."

Shran's lips tightened and his cheeks turned a shade of near violet. Antennae perched as if ready to strike, his voice ripped through the silence. "Wake up and smell the milk! Too many coincidences to me mean guilt."

Gral shook his head, his voice hoarse from arguing with Tyr all night. "Blue, I have known Neville much longer than you have. We worked in the council together for years. Though I may not agree with him on many topics, he is no spy."

"Then how do you explain him daring me to kill him?" asked Shran.

"That, I do not know."

The Andorian, seemingly unconvinced, stalked around the room much like the annoying habit of Archer.

"He speaks ill of Archer _every _chance he gets," said Blue.

"Poor judgment."

"And he has no love for T'Pol."

Gral waved his fingers in the air to dismiss his friend. "Again, he shows poor judgment."

"He's spying on Archer – he talks with other Starfleet personnel," said Shran. "He's surely working with the Romulans."

"It is unfortunate the Earthlings do not trust each other, and although Archer is my friend, I do not think it makes Ambassador Simon a Romulan spy."

Blue stopped in his tracks. "We should spy on him."

"What?" asked Gral.

"I recommend we plant a listening device on him," said Shran.

Gral snorted, almost in laughter, until he could see the Andorian was serious. The pig-like creature emphatically shook his head, grunting.

"We cannot fracture the council further."

"I would bet my ice home he's a spy," said Shran. "And I'm not just sitting by letting him provide information to the Romulans."

"No."

"We have to act!" said Shran, pounding his fist into his open palm.

"No."

"Gral, be reasonable! He's--"

With a squeal, Gral's snout twitched in anger. The little man waddled up to his friend, nearly sticking his belly into the Andorian's black leather, as a bony finger swung into the air. He could tell Shran wasn't pleased with the move – his antennae already arching forward – but the Tellarite didn't care.

"No! I will not participate. It will further divide us. If we have learned nothing over the course of the past few months, haven't we determined that we can only win the war through unity?" he asked, rhetorically. "Neville Simon is an unfortunate choice for ambassador. He does not understand galactic issues or culture as well as Archer, but he is Earth's choice. We must continue to work with him."

Shran, towering over the Tellarite, narrowed his eyes. "We have learned many things in the past few months, and I would think the most significant is you can trust me. I have been at your side through the most difficult times."

"We should trust each other," said Gral. "I am telling you, he is not a spy."

Shran's lips turned down. "And I disagree."

Gral saw the look in the Andorian's eye and suspected no matter what was said next, Shran would plant a listening device on Ambassador Simon. The Tellarite wanted no part in it and wondered after arguing for hours on end for Shran to stay on Earth, whether it was really the right thing to do. Tyr was right, the Andorians as a race were impulsive and Gral pondered whether being friends with Shran clouded his judgment.

Seeing the two had come to an impasse, Gral sighed. "I don't want any part in it."

The two became silent and finally made excuses to part company – Shran indicating his son probably needed watching and Gral mentioning needing sleep after a late night session talking with Tyr. When the Andorian left, Gral narrowed his eyes and decided to think on what had happened between them and what would be his next step.

Of all the decisions he'd made as ambassador, he knew this would be one of the most difficult.

--

Skon had been contacted by T'Pol, the first voice he'd heard other than T'Var's for at least three days. Her voice had been tense, but missing the frenetic quality that had marred her voice four days ago – the panicked timbre, like an animal, of a Vulcan female in Pon Farr. Over the intercom, she had quickly ordered him to the safest area of the ship – Admiral Archer's quarters – as the Panama prepared for battle.

An eyebrow raised now in reflection. When she'd said the captain's name, he hadn't felt the peculiar emotion that had plagued him several days ago. The one that boiled his blood, calling him to win T'Pol through the challenge – to fight the human to the death.

_'Touching the mind of a Vulcan in Pon Farr,'_ he mused silently, _'was not the wisest action I have ever taken.'_

The act had catapulted him into a fever, one that threatened to devour him – singe his insides and turn his internal organs to ash. He could not blame T'Pol for not giving into him; she had bonded with another and had not realized that the young Vulcan male also burned.

As Skon flexed his long, sinewy muscles, he gazed at the Vulcan next to him.

_T'Var is not unattractive_, he surmised.

Her medium-length hair fanned over the pillow and her slender eyebrows peaked to sharp points, sweeping up as was the latest style. T'Var's eyes, now closed, were large and the color of wet sand. She had a mouth that resembled the symbol humans used for a heart.

_That is inaccurate. She is quite attractive._

During his occasional bouts of reason, he and T'Var, Panama's communications officer, had spoken in Vulcan about their lives. Through their discussions, Skon learned that T'Var was an accomplished musician, part of what she indicated assisted her in the profession of communication. He gleaned that while at the Vulcan Academy, she planned – her mind unchallenged by communication on their home planet – to travel to unknown locations. Like Ambassador T'Pol, T'Var claimed to find the humans intriguing and acceptable traveling companions despite their smell and emotions.

She indicated she had never married – her bondmate having perished many years ago – and she found no logic in seeking out a replacement. After all, she claimed, one cannot have a marriage when one is always away.

As Skon viewed his partner, he watched her open her eyes.

"Did I hear that Panama may come under attack?" she asked.

"Yes. You did not imagine it."

"Then the ambassador did order to you to Admiral Archer's quarters."

"She did," he said.

Suddenly, as if she saw the flashing red light in her room, she pushed out of her bed. "I must get to my post. Now that you are no longer in danger, the ship is my first priority."

He gave a single nod. "That is _logical_."

A glimmer danced in her eye and sparkled, like a flicker of emotion and his chest swelled at it. As she slipped into her uniform, Skon spoke.

"Although the ambassador wishes me to stay in Admiral Archer's abode, I believe I may be of help to Panama," he said. "I would like to assist."

"The ambassador wants to prevent her protege, our representative to Vulcan, from being harmed," she said.

"Harm will undoubtedly come to me if Panama is attacked. Why not be of use in the meanwhile?" he asked, rhetorically. "Besides, Staron is back on Earth and can represent our people."

"What do you know about starships?" she asked.

"I believe the human expression is – 'just enough to be dangerous,'" he said.

With that T'Var tilted her head and poked an eyebrow into the air. The two continued stepping into their clothing and without another word said between them, the two headed off in the direction of the bridge.

--

Archer stood in front of the captains of the Panama, Shenandoah and Constantinople. Vega, Gupta and Stiles all sat – their eyes fixed on their commanding officer – as Arthur Westing, Archer's aide, scooted into the table along with them. To the side, T'Pol stood adorned in her diplomatic robes – her hands stoically placed behind her back.

As Jon was about to speak, he saw Stiles' eyes wander to the Vulcan and then narrow. Ignoring the gesture, the admiral paced around the room.

"You all know the situation. The Vulcans spotted a fleet of ships heading to rendezvous with us – both Romulan and Orion. We're outnumbered with the best hope of having a fleet of Vulcan ships reach us – at best speed – near evening." He frowned as he paced, the energy in the act helping him to convey orders. "To level the playing field, Captain Vega, Ambassador T'Pol and I have weighed the viability of using the nearby nebulae cluster – the Spider Nebula."

On cue, Arthur hit a few buttons to show the nebulae on the nearest screen – blues, greens and purples fanned out in with eight branches – like long legs. What appeared to be the trunk held oranges and yellows.

Just about to continue, pointing at one of the legs, Archer heard Stiles interrupt him.

"Sir, it's not protocol to bring an ambassador into Starfleet proceedings," he said. "Our sensors will be down and--"

"And so will theirs – that's the point. We might be able to hide or ambush them if we get lucky." Melanie heaved a sigh, protesting, "Besides, the ambassador used to be in Starfleet."

Gupta added his two cents. "I don't care whether she's in Starfleet or not, it's a good idea."

When Jon could see more debate about to erupt, he held up his hand showing them his palm and suddenly the chatter stopped.

"Truthfully, I'd rather ensure her safety for personal reasons ... and because I believe she's Starfleet's best connection to the Vulcans. T'Pol has been an ally to the humans for ... well, many years." He glanced over at his bondmate who refrained from reacting; instead he felt a warmth tingle up his spine, which he knew emanated from her. "But Ambassador T'Pol is lending us her expertise and knowing what we're up against, I'd be foolish to turn it down. And so would you."

Archer could tell it didn't relieve Stiles' concerns, but he decided that was the captain's issue, not his. Beginning to pace again, he started to call out the actions he wanted each of the captains to take.

"While we're in the nebula, we're going to have to take main systems off-line, leaving only emergency power – life support, gravity, etc."

"Why offline?" asked Gupta.

"I don't want there to even be a chance of them detecting us," said Archer. "If we go dead, we'll be harder to spot."

"How will we spot them?" asked Stiles, his arms folded across his chest.

T'Pol came to life. "We won't. Instead, we can out wait them and continue on the mission."

Stiles sneered. "Leave it to a Vulcan to hide from a fight."

"We have a mission to complete," said Archer. "If we--"

"Fighting our way out is the right thing to do, Admiral," said Stiles, standing.

Archer was about to disagree, loudly, but heard his bondmate speak up.

"Fighting our way out, Captain Stiles, is suicide," said Ambassador T'Pol.

Gupta agreed, "If our nuclear weapons get hit, we're all dead."

"But they know we're here, right?" asked Vega. "Admiral, you said yourself that you thought it was sabotage."

Admiral Archer nodded. "We only need three hours. I'm ordering communication silence."

"Won't they look for us?" asked Gupta.

"Yes," said Archer.

"But how long will that take to find us?" asked Gupta again.

Archer said, "All we need to buy is a few hours until the Vulcans come. We have their time, we can unveil ourselves when they arrive ... and hopefully that will provide the element of surprise."

Vega narrowed her eyes. "Sir, you're counting on the Vulcans to get to us by an exact time."

Archer smiled. "If there's anything we can count on the Vulcans for, it's timeliness."

Stiles didn't seem convinced. "I don't like this plan."

Crossing the room, pacing, Archer kept his eyes on the captain. Face grim, hawkish, he furrowed his brows and decided to lay it on the line.

"You may not like it, but that's the plan. You have your orders, I expect you to follow them."

Stiles folded his arms. "Sir, having an ambassador help dictate our plans is highly irregular and--"

Archer halted that discussion before it could begin again. "I said you have your orders."

Suddenly silence rang in the room and he mentally sighed. Quickly, he began debriefing them all on the exact plans. During the entire discussion, he could feel Stiles disagreement. He'd learned long ago that there was a time to give into discention and a time to ignore it. Archer had been taught that lesson from Forrest; although Forrest had been a mentor and had given him a lot of leeway when it came to voicing his concerns, Jon figured out when to shut up. With a smile, he also thought about Trip. His friend was no shrinking violet when it came to giving his two cents and sometimes himself had difficulty knowing when to stop.

Personally, even if Trip pushed his luck, Archer always liked it – at least in hindsight. And he had to admit, his former engineer always had a point.

The musing lasted only a few moments and he felt T'Pol's eyes on him. The words that echoed in his mind resounded and awakened him from a trance.

_I agree,_ she thought.

Hoping they could hold off a Romulan attack, he gave his orders and planned with his captains and T'Pol. The meeting lasted an hour, and afterward, Archer could tell they all felt exhausted working on the minutia of the plan.

_God, I hope it works, _he thought.


	49. Chapter 49

A/N: Thank you, thank you, thank you. Thank you for hanging in there. Thank you for writing. Thank you for letting me know you still read it occasionally.

I humbly apologize. In the time I've had "off," I've become a new mom, quit a job, gotten another full-time job and still do all the little things around the house. I'm sure it sounds familiar to many of you.

* * *

The viewscreen lit up. Spanning across the hull of the Panama, long spindly legs in blue and green hues appeared. Each of the three ships, the Shenandoah, Constantinople and Panama, headed into the orange middle – the spider's body – until one by one, they vanished into the vapor of clouds, lost to the others in the nebula's thick soup.

Soon Panama itself was engulfed by a swirling orange mass, tickling its sides. Based on previous calculations, each of the ships agreed to head to a different quadrant of the nebula – to increase the chances of survival. Although it would be difficult to wait at specific coordinates, each of the ship captains could get close.

Captain Melanie Vega perched at Panama's center chair and ordered her ship further in. Turning, her long black hair whipping around, she licked her lips waiting for a report of the outages that came with entering the nebula – outages that signaled they would be well-hidden from the Romulans and Orions.

"Scanners are offline," reported Indigo, the woman at the science station.

Systems began to fail as lightning charged and sparked on the viewscreen, flickering with static. The strikes flashed white-hot against the rainbow clouds, lighting them up and exciting particles floating in the gas.

"All stop," Vega ordered. Then she turned to T'Var at Communications. "Open up a ship-wide announcement."

The woman who just yesterday had been assisting Skon in his "delirium" typed her long, Vulcan fingers along the console. With a single flick of her eyebrow, she signaled to Captain Vega the channel was available.

Vega started, "This is the captain. We've entered the Spider Nebula. All systems will begin powering off in the schedule planned on my mark." The captain looked over at Archer who paced in front of the viewscreen, then Ambassador T'Pol who stood nearby the science station and then to Skon who stood in the back as still as a statue. "Mark."

The science station reported systems shutting down until darkness spread over the Bridge, the faint blue light of back-ups barely enough illumination.

"Only life support, medical and navigation remain," the science officer reported. "And they seem stable."

"Thank you," Mel said.

The bridge began to cool quickly as the crew waited. The tension on the bridge was thick. Each member of the bridge crew focused on their position with laser focus … at least until Vega hear a clomping of large shoes against the deck plating. She looked up to find Admiral Archer walking from one end of the bridge to the other. His boots, Starfleet-issued, indeed clanged against the deck plating rhythmically until he turned on his toe to cross to the other side. As he turned around for the twentieth time since Mel started counting, she called up.

"Sir?"

He turned around, spinning on his heels as if eager for action. "Yes?"

"You're pacing," she complained.

"He's always done this," Travis said, a smile playing on his lips. "You sorta get used to it."

"Do you?" T'Pol asked.

Archer threw her a treacherous look to Travis and then T'Pol that led to a chuckle. "Nervous habit," Admiral Archer admitted. His foot began to edge forward until he placed his hands behind his back as if to tame the nervous energy, his hands gripping each other and releasing. "How long has it been now?"

Skon reported, "Twenty minutes and three seconds from the last time you asked." The Vulcan straightened as Archer narrowed his eyes. Skon revised his estimate, "It has now been a total of two hours and sixteen minutes since we entered the nebula."

"Well, that means we only have about two more hours or so until the Vulcans come … at least if they're punctual," Mel said.

"We can usually count on the Vulcan's punctuality," Mayweather said. His smile turned to T'Pol who seemed to agree.

"If they are not waylaid," the Vulcan ambassador said.

Arthur Westing, the Admiral's aide, also stood behind the banister and said, "This waiting is pure torture."

"Torture?" T'Var asked. "On the contrary, the fact we have yet to encounter a Romulan or Orion seems fortunate."

"Indeed. The Spider Nebulae is vast," Skon said. "However, the likelihood of a Romulan or Orion finding us, assuming they have lost a good portion of their navigation, is fifteen point five seven nine to one."

"Only fifteen to one?" the man at tactical asked.

"If you are rounding, crewman, sixteen," Skon replied.

Archer frowned at the Vulcan. "We knew the odds when we came here."

"They may've already encountered the Constantinople or the Shenandoah," Vega said, dismayed.

–

Shran awoke late, having struggled all night with what to do about Simon. It wasn't just Simon's suspicious behavior troubling Shran. He'd been called away to Andoria – to leave a place that didn't quite feel like home, but was filled with memories and friends. Tares would soon take up his duties and work daily with Gral and the Vulcan when she returned. Tallah wouldn't get a chance to even see the Pink Skin again most likely. And Shras would never know what his friends were like.

On top of his worries of leaving Earth and Simon's treachery, he'd thought about his own. He recalled how he'd purposefully hid information from members of the Council. How he'd lied to Gral and to T'Pol so that he and Archer could plan testing the use of dilithium crystals.

Truth be told, Shran figured that Archer didn't think the Andorians would complete a test ship so quickly. General Krag, the military leader of Andoria – an ambitious Thaan who reported to the Queen – seemed determined to make this alternative power his legacy.

Shran had to admit it was enticing – to be able to power a starship with a few crystals, a ship that could go faster than warp five while holding shields and firing weapons. Archer had called this secret between the Pink Skins and Andorians, one that would eventually come out, and Shran still wasn't certain why Archer would want to hide the information from T'Pol, but …. Shran had long ago given up understanding his favorite Pink Skin.

Pounding his fists on the table, as if finalizing his decisions, he pushed back his plate of cold fish and headed to the makeshift council chamber in a location that seemed better suited for what humans called strip malls.

"_I don't understand why they call it a strip mall. I see nothing erotic in this area," Shran complained._

When he pushed open the door, Shran saw Neville Simon already sitting at the table with Staron and Gral and let his antennae droop. Immediately, the Tellarite looked over and snorted.

"You're late, Blue," Gral said.

Shran's antennae twisted and he sat down at the far end of the table placing his feet on the table as he'd done so many times before.

"Trouble sleeping," he grumbled.

"Oh?" Gral asked.

"I've wrestled with my conscience," Shran confessed. "And I can't decide who won."

"Conscience? I didn't know you had one," Gral teased.

Shran sighed as he'd heard the humans do so many times. "I'm serious. There have been a few things troubling me – so many that I wondered if I should come today."

"You should send your aide in then," Neville Simon indicated. "Especially since your time on Earth is short."

His mouth twisted. He'd thought about that – it had been a consideration. "She doesn't know some of what I do – what I've come here to tell you today. Besides, I'm not done here."

Simon exposed long teeth into a snarled smile. "That isn't what Gral said. He said you were being replaced by Tares."

Shran's eyes pierced the Tellarite as he looked away.

The pig-like creature said, "Shran, what Simon says make sense. Since you are being replaced, Tares should begin attending our meetings regularly … with or without you." His long spindly fingers touched Shran's leather as if to apologize.

The Andorian said, "No."

"You are being illogical," Staron claimed. "Our main goal is to secure through diplomatic -"

"Oh put a spork in it," Shran complained. "I know one or both of you are spies."

"Not this again," Gral groaned.

"Spies?" Simon asked.

"Don't make that claim here, Blue. It's unwelcome," Gral warned.

Shran, defiant, wiggled his antennae in frustration. "Simon, I think you and Staron are spies. I can't prove it, but -"

"You believe me to be a spy?" Simon asked.

Gral pounded his fist on the table. "Ratnig! I told you not to bring up your comments."

Shran pointed a blue finger at Simon while turning to his Tellarite friend. "Just the other day, you dared me to hit you."

Simon's lips twisted into a frown. "I recall you threatening me."

Shran scoffed, "You know I could easily kill you, Pink Skin. I've been a member of the Imperial Guard."

"You were … before you were kicked out in disgrace," Simon said.

Shran put a hand to his blade as Gral stood. The Tellarite shouted, "Enough!"

"Not enough," Shran complained, his cheeks turning purple with rage. "Tellarite, you say you want a council, but how can we ever achieve unity if there is mistrust. I don't like Neville, and I don't trust him. As the humans say, I trust him as far as I could tow him."

"Throw him," Simon corrected before engaging in a counterattack. "You're right about one thing, Shran, there's mistrust. I don't trust you."

Shran growled as the giant sloth on his planet might before tearing its prey from limb-to-limb. It was then he stood straighter and decided to let loose what had been bothering him all night. "You don't trust me and yet you and your government want to work with me and the Andorians on dilithium crystal technology."

"What?" Gral asked.

Shran narrowed his eyes and said, "The Pink Skins and Andorians have been working together, without the Vulcans and Tellarites on dilithium crystal technology."

"Is this true?" Gral squealed.

Staron stood as well. "The Vulcan government would be … displeased to hear such a thing."

Simon narrowed his eyes. "Shran, you are a fool."

"No, I was a fool before." The Andorian looked at his friend Gral before hanging his head in shame. "Now, it seems to be the right thing – to bring this up. Gral, I wanted to tell you. So did the Pink Skin."

"Which one?" Gral asked.

"Archer," Shran said. "We discussed this at our governments request, but …."

"You and the _human _devised this plan?" Gral asked. "Under my snout?" He shook his head in disbelief. "Without us or … the Vulcans? He would never betray Skinny like that."

Shran disagreed, "Neither of us wanted to betray you or the Vulcan, but it was not up to us."

"He would've divulged this information," Gral said.

Simon said, "I will have to talk with our President about this matter. We may not want to serve on the council with the Andorians at all."

Gral's body shook with rage. "Ambassador, if what the Andorian says is true, the Tellarites may wish to pull out of negotiations completely. And I wouldn't be surprised if the Vulcans follow."

Staron shot an eyebrow up, but seemed in agreement with the Tellarite.

Shran pointed at Simon. "This council has been based on mistrust. I say we put all ships on the table."

Simon said, "Chips. All the chips on the table. The humans would never -"

Shran didn't want to have to do this, but he placed a communications device out and replayed a conversation he'd had with Archer many months ago. He was glad he'd recorded it for posterity – to show how hesitant both he and Archer were and about forging ahead on the plans to use dilithium crystals.

A three-dimensional image appeared floating above the communications device – crude, but effective. Suddenly the picture became clear and the council watched an event that happened more than three months ago.

_Shran leaned over and spoke with the Pink Skin at what looked like a bar. Archer's body was still recovering from his injuries and the lines on his face doubled as if worried. _

_The Andorian leaned over and said his military leader, General Krag, was interested in sharing technology and research, and though Archer didn't seem too thrilled about the request, he seemed to entertain the notion. Both discussed how it could eventually help the alliance, but Archer seemed determined to keep the information from the Vulcans._

_Archer said, "Ever since you've shown us that crystal, our scientists have been working on it, but … I'm not sure we're even close to figuring out how to get energy out of it. The Vulcans might be closer to-"_

_"The General doesn't want to work with the Vulcans. He wants me to work with the humans," Shran replied._

_The human bristled a little. "That goes against the treaty our governments signed … that **we've **signed Shran."_

_Thy'lek nodded. "I know."_

_"By telling me this, you know T'Pol might find out." As if the Andorian couldn't figure it out, Archer pointed to his mind, suggesting the link that the he shared with the Vulcan._

_"Maybe."_

_"Did you want her to?"_

_"I can't help what happens after I've done my duty."_

_The human crossed his arms and shifted his weight in his seat. "Do you really think it's possible to run a starship using dilithium at warp seven while maintaining shields and firing phase canons?"_

_"Our scientists have proven it's possible, but converting it into energy has proven more difficult that we could've imagined."_

_Suddenly, Archer's face went pale. "The Arali wanted that crystal you had and the whereabouts to others like it."_

_"Yes."_

_"Do you think the Romulans started war looking for power?" asked Archer. "I mean literal fuel?"_

_"I would think they would have plasma as Earth or Andoria."_

_"Plasma only allows a ship to maintain warp seven or raise shields or fire phase canons. Not all at once, at least not with current technology."_

_"They have been more intent on Andoria," said Shran._

_Archer sipped at his drink, wincing only slightly as he swallowed it, and then rested his head on his chest. With a long breath, he spoke quietly. "Maybe having Andoria and Earth collaborate on dilithium-based energy isn't such a bad idea."_

_"You mean leaving out the Tellarites and Vulcans?"_

_The light in the Pink Skin's eyes faded, turning dark and his voice went hoarse. "Maybe."_

_"So you would betray T'Pol and her people?" asked Shran._

_"Never T'Pol," he said quickly. "There may be reasons for keeping this from the Vulcans."_

_Shran's antennae stiffened, but he knew better than ask questions about that; he knew the Pink Skin wouldn't answer. "And the Tellarites? Gral would never forgive me."_

_"If we shared the technology with them when complete-"_

_"I don't know if Krag would do it."_

_"Earth would."_

_"It would hurt the alliance."_

_"Yes, but every planet would be eager to have it; they would forgive our races easily."_

_Shran waved the bartender over for another drink. "I feel like a cheat. As an Imperial Guardsman-"_

_"Your general asked you to do it; it wasn't your choice."_

_"And if T'Pol finds out?" he asked._

_"Not if, **when**." Archer finished the rest of his drink. "I believe she would side with us."_

_The Andorian seemed surprised by that. Shran asked, "You'll contact your government?"_

_"I'll let you know," Archer said, as if understanding the weight of the decision._

When the image disappeared, Shran picked up his communications device and placed it back into his black belt. Frowning at Gral, his antennae drooped. "I'm sorry."

Gral appeared to refuse to look at Shran, and the Vulcan spoke up. "It is clear that you and Admiral Archer were aware when you broke existing pacts by discussing this," Staron said.

Shran was about to answer when Gral interrupted, his voice weak. "Where is the technology now?"

Shran said, "The Andorians have a ship now being tested with what the humans have learned. My queen wants it to be ready soon and General Krag believes it can be replicated easily."

"What you're doing is treasonous," Simon snarled.

"Treasonous because I revealed plans you knew about?" Shran asked. "Or treasonous for betraying my friends?"

Simon had no answers, but Staron said, "The Vulcans would like to have your research to date as well as any other recordings between the Andorians and Humans regarding this … deception." He then turned to Simon. "I expect all blueprints by the end of the day."

Gral agreed, "And the Tellarites want this information as well. We'll use this to make our decision about how to proceed."

Shran agreed, "Of course."

Simon was unwilling to make such a commitment. "I'll need to talk with our President-"

Gral snorted as he circled the table, his voice filled with anger. "The Terrans have plotted and planned with the Andorians outside the conditions and treaties between our people. And you knew about it! Ambassador Shran was right, this council has been based on lies. If the Earthlings don't provide us exactly what we want, the Tellarites and Vulcans have no choice but to … withdraw from the alliance."

"We have a common enemy!" Simon shouted. He turned to Staron to appeal to him, as if counting on their friendship. "The Romulans nearly killed you and me. I'm not agreeing that the humans participated in what Shran is suggesting, but -"

Shran agreed with Gral. "The little pig is right. We owe the Vulcans and Tellarites this information. Andoria will willingly provide the information to the Vulcans and Tellarites."

Staron seemed less eager to continue. Folding his hands in his robes, he said, "I will have to discuss this matter with Minister T'Pau." And then he shook his head. "Ambassador Simon, after what has happened to us – our near death together by the hands of the Romulans – it disturbs me that Earth would enter into negotiations with our oldest enemies, the Andorians. Our peace with them is fragile at best." He then blinked as if considering his next words carefully. "Vulcan may have no choice but to leave the alliance."

"You wouldn't!" Simon called out.

"It is entirely possible," Staron replied.

"It would jeopardize our war effort," Simon said.

"Yes. It would," he agreed.

"We have ships near Romulan space now," Simon said.

Staron raised his eyebrow. "I am aware."

Shran butted in. "We need the Vulcans."

"You should have considered that _before _agreeing to this," Staron said. Without emotion, he went to the closet to withdraw a cloak, and then placed it around his neck. "I will advise you what the Vulcans have decided."

Gral grunted and stuffed his arms into his furry, brown jacket. "We are dismissed." He shot his beady eyes to Shran. "This has been a dark day for us. Very dark."

Shran's antennae dropped further as the Tellarite and Vulcan left. Simon fumed as they vanished. "How could you jeopardize our alliance?"

"Don't you understand, Simon, with this hanging over our heads, we would never achieve real and lasting peace." The blue man sat down with a thud. "I want to affect not just the war, but the lives of Shras as Tallah – my children. I want them to enjoy as lasting alliance. If this information came out afterward-"

"Stupid, ant! Your children may never get that opportunity now. With the Tellarites and Vulcans aware of what we've done, they may leave the Council. Permanently."

Rather than become irritated at the accusation, the blue man shook his head. "I don't believe they will. We've only been researching this a few months. By bringing them in now-"

"And what makes you say that?"

"Because I know them." He then regarded the human with a sneer. "Just like I know you. If you had any brains in that vacuous pink head of yours, you'd know that admitting the betrayal to them is the best way to show your good intentions. But then … I know your intentions – you're a spy."

"I'm no spy!" Simon yelled. "Why would you do this before turning responsibility over to Tares?"

Shran remained quiet.

Simon grabbed his coat and headed for the door. The human fumed, "If I were you, I'd get your family packed immediately. I'll make sure you are never seen on Earth again." He slammed the door, the cheap mini blinds swinging behind it.

Shran winced and then let the smallest hint of a smile spread across his face at the notion of the listening device he'd planted on Simon's coat.

"_Oh, I'll find out if you're a spy all right." _It gave him little solace against betraying his friends. He would've blamed the Pink Skin, but he knew in his ice veins the man had the same good intentions he did. Instead, he sat at the table staring into space wondering what his next move would be.

–

When Gral got home, he cursed under his breath – too tired and weary to start an argument with his wife, Martog. Instead, he poured an ale for himself and plopped down on the couch. He wasn't surprised when his communications device chirped with his leader's face, Tyr, coming to view.

"I had to hear from the Vulcans that the Terrans and Andorians betrayed us! The Vulcans!" Tyr raged.

"I was about to contact you," Gral said.

"Apparently, the Vulcans have known for many Earth minutes. Minister T'Pau asked what I thought about the matter."

"The fact she asked seems to be an improvement in relations," he offered, weakly.

Tyr squealed with anger. "What are you being paid to do on Earth, befriend an Andorian?" He didn't allow interruption. "Just yesterday you argued that Shran was to be trusted. You said Ambassador Shran was an ally. You said I should put my scruff out and talk with the Andorian leaders so that Shran could stay on Earth." He snorted "It seems you've been made to be a fool."

Gral was silent.

Tyr said, "I've brought it to the Tellar Assembly to determine how to react."

"What do you believe our action will be?" Gral asked.

"We are considering leaving the war."

Gral put down his beer. "We cannot do so now – the Romulans will plague Tellar as well. It seems we are committed to ending it with our allies. Perhaps the most advantageous solution would be censure."

"You're joking."

Gral grunted, "No. The Earthlings and Andorians handed us advanced technology – one that they are already perfecting – something that has been beyond our consideration. Our ships, arguably the fastest in the galaxy, will be much faster now."

"Censure?"

"Tellar will benefit greatly from this revelation. We have an abundance of dilithium on our planet that can be easily mined. The Andorians and Humans have so little available to them. They'll need to trade with us now and into the future to continue."

"You're suggesting we merely _fine _the Terrans and Blue Devils for their betrayal?"

Gral answered, "Yes."

"You're out of your mind."

Gral sipped his beer and thought about it. "I would like to argue in front of my people – explain things to them. You don't understand the Andorians and Terrans like I do. Shran and Archer would never-"

"You won't get to argue your case, but you _are _being sent home."

"Excuse me?" he asked, sitting up.

"You heard me. The least we can do is withdraw our diplomat."

"You can't just send me home."

Tyr snorted. "In fact, I can. Get your things together. After the Assembly decides the fate of our alliance, they will consider what to do with you."

"You think I have acted as a traitor?"

"That has yet to be decided."

"What if I refuse to leave Earth?" he asked.

"Then I will send our elite squad to collect you." Tyr ended the transmission.

Gral stared at the blank screen for a long time. When he finally put his communications device down he shook his head and whispered, "Shran, this time you have gone too far."

–

Shran's listening device sounded with activity. Simon was muttering under his breath as he obviously walked through a portal of some kind and started speaking to someone. Shran turned up the audio to ensure he heard every word.

The microphone seemed muffled as if the Ambassador Simon was taking off his coat. The audio dropped in again as Neville Simon began to complain to the President about what had happened. Of course, Simon managed to paint a different picture than Shran recalled: to his antennae he sounded more like a villain than someone trying to save the council.

"Military secrets are difficult to keep," the voice said.

Shran recognized the voice and straightened, nearly dropping the device. It was the President of Earth.

"Ambassador Shran was never to be trusted," Simon growled.

"Did he give a reason why he brought this to the attention of the council?" the President asked.

"Stupidity," Simon responded. "Or sabotage."

Shran scowled at the listening device and told it, holding it close as if to scold it, "You're wouldn't know what's good for the long-term health of the council if it bit you on the baflik."

The voice of the President grew quieter, as if he had moved away. "What's done is done. The best thing to do now is share the information with the others. Our alliance is more important than the information about the dilithium crystals, and what they could do." He paused. "Admiral Archer warned us about involving the Vulcans, but … we have yet to prove that their council has been betrayed."

Simon said, "Giving away the dilithium technology could set us back. We're limited with what plasma can do for a ship. With dilithium crystals? The capability to raise shields, use the transporter, fire weapons all while at warp three – that is technology worth protecting."

The President sighed, "All the more reason to share it with our allies."

Simon scoffed, "Archer was the one who indicated it may be best."

Shran gritted his teeth as he shook the listening device. "Neville Simon, you are a tarpig!"

The President corrected his ambassador, "That's not quite what he said. He voiced some concerns about the spy network – undercover agents like your former aide – getting this information, but said he could trust Shran." His voice grew louder as if closer to the mic. "He also indicated there would no doubt come a time to bring it to the others. I presume that time has come."

Simon responded, his voice filled with disappointment, "The Vulcans indicated they may leave the alliance."

The President asked, "And the Tellarites?"

"Gral would not say. I'm not sure either Gral or Staron wanted to share the information with their governments. Staron is my … friend and Gral seems to have a good relationship with Shran, heaven knows why."

Shran grimaced again and wondered what the video was when he heard Simon speak again. "Shran believes me to be a spy."

"We're all suspicious these days," the President said.

"He knows I've been keeping tabs on Archer through Captain Stiles."

"He doesn't know _we've _been keeping tabs on him."

Shran nearly dropped his device and looked around panicked, wondering if the President of Earth was also a spy. If that had happened, Shran knew the entire war effort was in serious disarray and doomed for failure. As he was about to contact Gral, he heard the President speak again.

The President said, "His relationship with Ambassador T'Pol …. I don't like it any more than you do, but I want to make sure it doesn't jeopardize his judgment and how he defends Earth."

Simon confessed, "Captain Stiles was badly mistreated. I'm … no fan of Admiral Archer, but I wonder if what happened to Stiles plays into what he tells us. Even when describing what was happening to me, he couldn't help but spew unwelcome and unwanted slurs against the Vulcans."

The President said, his voice steely, "All the more reason to be talking with _Stiles_. It's good to keep an eye on him as well."

Shran seemed confused as he looked at the device again. "So, Ambassador Simon isn't a spy?"

"And what do we do with Shran?" Simon asked.

The blue man raised his head, scrutinizing the answer.

"We'll … talk about him later. First, I'd like you to stick around to apologize to our allies."

"Sir-"

"You hold weight with Ambassador Staron, and … I'm never quite sure what to do with Minister T'Pau. I always get the impression she's holding back."

Simon agreed, "Staron seems to be the only Vulcan I've really ever understood."

The two immediately started making calls to the leaders of Vulcan and Tellar, Minister T'Pau and General Krag, respectively. Shran listened to the conversations intently – the humans apologizing, the allies indicating after some cajoling they'd consider it and then the hasty halt of the transmission. Despite everything, everything, Shran wondered whether the council would easily weather this storm and move onto serious business. The President and Ambassador Simon didn't seem as convinced, but Shran heard something he'd learned from Archer to listen for: hope. It was there in every response.

"Hope? I'm thinking like the Pink Skin now," he grumbled to himself. And despite the grumbling, he was still smiling.

–

Even in the low lighting T'Pol could see the chattering teeth of the humans; ventilation and heat had been minimized to keep life support online in the Spider Nebula. Eyes closing for a moment, she could feel the cold herself – her people used to basking in the suns warm rays.

For the first time in years she felt what the humans might call homesickness for her planet, Vulcan. As she felt the playful admonishment of Archer enter her conscience she heard Skon.

"Admiral, you asked me to alert you when five Earth hours have passed." He paused when no one responded. "I am alerting you."

Jonathan seemed to grin from ear-to-ear. "Thank you." He chuckled to himself and his eyes caught T'Pol's.

She felt the mirth on the Bridge as the humans seemed to breathe a collective sigh of relief.

Archer chuckled harder, "Skon, we couldn't have done it without you."

"Thanks is unnecessary," Skon replied.

More of the Bridge crew, caught up in the gaiety of seeming to have cheated death, laughed and hugged. Vega stood up as if her legs had been cramped and stretched from waiting. Walking stiffly over to Travis' station, she ordered the man to exit the nebulae. He confessed it would be a while longer on impulse, but smiling, put in the information.

Panama's power flickered as more stations came to life – only enough to enable the ship to be propelled forward. The main viewscreen showed static, the rainbow-colored clouds swirling together. Archer walked up to T'Pol and beamed.

"Looks like your idea worked," he said to her.

It was then T'Pol saw a giant, green bird-like ship appear from nowhere and then disappear. Before she could open her mouth to warn them, a single missile floated in the air streaming for the Panama. Pointing she whispered to her mate.

"They've fired," she said.

He whirled around and shouted to polarize hull plating when she heard screams as structures buckled under the barrage and electrical systems sparked. A surge and what looked like a bolt of lightning sent Indigo, the crew woman at the science station, across the deck, her dead body still convulsing. In the static of the viewscreen, T'Pol noticed the ship leaked what looked like plasma coolant.

Skon immediately went to the science officer and then announced what needed no clarification.

"She is deceased," he said. With that, he headed behind the science station and called back. "This system appears to be offline."

"The nukes," Jonathan said to no one in particular.

T'Pol asked, "You believe they are active?"

_Yes,_ she heard reverberate in her ears.

Her mate headed to the armory station to ask for confirmation as Captain Vega scrambled to the captain's chair reeling off a list of commands that seemed futile. Each time she asked for something, her crew responded that command was impossible to fulfill because nearly every system was offline.

T'Pol went to the science station and asked Skon, "Is it possible to repair?"

"Perhaps. Mechanical engineering has never been my strong suit."

"I know a little of it," she said, lowering herself underneath the station. She took off the panel. It was dark, but she could make out the exact issue: scanner cables needed repair and possible replacement. She pointed her finger to the back of the Bridge.

"There is a toolkit there, behind the Admiral's station," she said.

He took off for the area when Captain Vega asked the helsman, recovering, "How long until we reach space?"

"About seventeen minutes," he said.

T'Pol saw the marks of bird on the wings of a green ship flicker again into view. It was beautiful and terrifying – the wingspan of a Vulcan a bird of prey – the ra'tuok. The creature was five meters tall with red feathers and black eyes. From the legends before logic and reason, the bird was said to be able to carry off Vulcan children in its talons or peck the eyes of a sehlat. A shudder almost overcame her as she noticed another bolt of light.

"They are firing again," she said.

"Hang on everyone," Vega said.

Archer looked down at the console next to the armory officer. "We can't polarize the hull."

Skon, the toolkit in his hand, offered up his thoughts. "That is … unfortunate."

T'Pol heard the creak and moan of Panama starting to crumple as they were hit again. As before, the systems that were on sputtered as if halting before coming back to life. The sizzle of electrical current again snapped and crackled. This time the Vulcan knew to warn the Bridge crew.

"Stand away from your instruments," she called out.

The surge in electricity was unable to find an outlet. A beep chimed at the armory console and Jonathan looked up at her, his face drained of color.

"We have confirmation. They're armed."

"Are the nukes set to detonate?" asked Vega.

"In fifteen minutes," he said. His eyes lost their hue. "We're going to need to send someone down there to disarm them."

"Armory?" Vega asked.

T'Var spoke up to answer, "I cannot communicate with anyone outside of the Bridge – all systems are down." Diagnosing the issue, she added, "The problem is with Engineering. They may be making priority decisions based on the challenges they face."

T'Pol knew what would happen next, though she couldn't disagree with the logic. There was only one individual on the Bridge who had enough knowledge of the ship to know which passages might be open and had a plethora of armory experience.

"I'll go," Vega said. "I know this ship and I came up through tactical."

Archer said, "I should go. You're the captain, you're needed on the Bridge."

"I don't have a lot of time to argue, Admiral. My crew is exceptional, we have Ambassador T'Pol here, one of the best science officers Starfleet has ever had and you." Vega already started heading off to the back of the Bridge to open one of the Jeffries tubes. "If I haven't contacted you in ten minutes, jettison them."

"How are you going to contact us – communications are down?" Jonathan replied.

T'Pol suggested, "Perhaps we can jettison the nuclear weapons now."

"There wouldn't be enough distance between us and those nukes before they detonate," the armory officer said.

"And what if the Romulans take the weapons aboard?" Vega replied.

Jonathan cracked a smile and then said, "Brilliant!" He turned to Vega, "That's exactly what she's hoping will happen."

T'Pol added, "Since they are unfamiliar with English it may take them considerable time to decipher how to disarm them, and by that time – the devices will have already exploded."

"_They _could explode them," the armory officer wondered aloud.

"That will still achieve the desired result – they will be unable to follow us," T'Pol said.

Vega nodded. "But that still doesn't give us enough time to get away."

T'Pol agreed, "It may not. It is a calculated risk."

"Evasive maneuvers," Vega said pointing to the flickering viewscreen. And before Travis could reply, she said, "Just give me your best, Mayweather."

The ship was grazed by fire, nearly sending the Bridge staff to the floor. The low blue lighting flickered on the Bridge sending them into near darkness.

"But perhaps we don't have a choice," Mel said to the ship itself.

Skon put down the toolkit and folded his arms across his chest as if deep in thought. "What if we used the act of jettisoning them to propel us forward?" he suggested.

"How are we going to do that without contacting Engineering?" Mayweather asked.

Archer said, "We could send someone down to Armory to do so manually. We could launch them through the torpedoes, but at a slower pace to buy us some time."

"It _could _set them off," Vega said.

Archer agreed, "Yeah, it could. But that's starting to sound like our best option."

Vega said, "It would likely be a suicide mission. Whoever went down there would have to launch them and get the hell back here in less than ten minutes."

T'Pol agreed, "Yes, ten minutes would be the recommended window of time."

Skon chimed in, "Ten point one second would provide precisely enough time to launch the nuclear weapons assuming it propels us forward by at least -"

"Right," Vega said. "I think we're already covered that I know the ins and outs of Panama and that I have the most armory experience. I'm going."

"Mel-" Archer warned.

Without further discussion, she climbed into the Jeffries tube and was gone. Archer went to the tube and called her name without response. Turning on his boot, he looked back to T'Pol, his face marred with concern.

_T'Pol thought to him, "She acted logically and heroically. I understand she is a friend of yours, but she is also the captain of this vessel."_

"_Doesn't make it feel any better," Archer thought. _Aloud the Admiral said, "Travis, continue evasive maneuvers"

Silently, he hoped for a miracle and T'Pol couldn't help but hang her head and do the same.

_It will likely take one, she thought to him._

Shran wasn't surprised to get a call from General Krag at home. What did shock him was that the Andorian was smiling at him. Shran scratched an antennae and waited for what his superior would say.

"The Queen today signed an order that you will be returned to Andoria as soon as possible," Krag said.

Shran hesitated and then watched Jhamel walk in the front door with their two children. In her blind hands were groceries and strapped to her chest – Shras – their infant. Tallah came through the front door, louder than usual, as Thy'lek finally determined what to say.

"I am to return anyway. I mean, I was scheduled to depart here soon."

"That schedule has been moved up …."

Shran furrowed his brow as he'd seen the Pink Skin do a hundred times over. "I told the Council so that we may truly begin to trust each other. It was the honorable thing to do, and you know it."

"Honorable?" Krag didn't stop smiling. "That's not what the Queen said."

"I've served her, stolen for her. I've already proved my loyalty – that I would never betray her or Andoria."

Krag didn't have a response, other than to continue grinning with menace.

"And if I don't return?" Shran asked.

Almost as if on cue Tares entered the abode and pointed an Andorian weapon at him. Krag chuckled and then said, "You don't really have a choice."

"My family?" Shran asked.

"They're staying behind." Then Krag gave his first frown. "I wouldn't invoke the Andorian Article of Revenge. We'd consider the matter closed with you."

Shran scrutinized his general. He hadn't considered the Andorian law that allowed both monetary and physical vengeance when justice couldn't be served to satisfaction, but now that the man brought it up – it scared him. He worried suddenly for his entire family.

Tares seemed unhappy to be holding a blaster, her antennae drooped. "I'm sorry, Thy'lek."

Then the two left the old Victorian home that Shran had considered home for nearly the year he'd been on Earth. As he entered the shuttle, he looked out the window and hoped that Jhamel and his offspring would be okay as he made his way with Tares to the space transfer station.


	50. Chapter 50

A/N: I have not forgotten! And don't worry, I will finish this. We're in the third act without too much to go. I think very possibly another ten chapters or fewer.

Thank you for everyone who has written in encouraging me to continue. I really appreciate the reminders people are waiting and reading. I also really appreciate the kind feedback. It's humbling that you care about these characters and what happens to them. Thank you.

Expect the next release much sooner. I promise!

All the best,

Gammara

Tares drove the shuttle as Thy'lek Shran sat in the back seat, looking down at his old Victorian home—the white shutters, the tiny yard that held Andorian toy battlements that his daughter had used for pretend warfare and Jhamel's shuttle parked in front of the house. When he'd first decided to rent the place, he'd expected to loathe every unnecessary detail that had come with the abode—the frilly curtains and ornate wood-carved fireplace that had never been used. And yet as the vehicle veered into the sky he couldn't help but reminisce how much he'd miss it.

As expected, he saw his blind wife spill out of the house with his children in tow, holding a rifle-blaster as if she knew how to fire it. Cocked into the air, she did fire, but the laser whizzed meters by the shuttle. Silently, he wished he could tell her to put the rifle down before the busy bodies next door called the law on them … again. She stood and fired again, missing by a larger distance, and he chuckled to himself as he saw his daughter take the weapon and get much closer than a child her age should've.

A small smile made it to his lips as he heard his friend in the front seat start to speak.

"You know this wasn't my choice," she said.

Shran frowned, turning his attention to the Andorian behind the wheel. "Tares, I have learned by now that we all have choices. You could, if you wanted, return me at any moment."

Tares sighed as if she'd thought about it many times before. "General Krag would haul my tankra-uhalt back to Andoria if I didn't return you."

"He probably would," Shran agreed.

"He'd go after my family. My mother is in the military, she'd be disgraced."

"That's true," Shran said. "And no doubt your father's fish hatchery would suffer, too."

Tares placed the shuttle on autopilot. "Why did you do this? You knew what the consequences would be." As if she expected him to disagree, she pointed her finger at him as her antennae lurched forward. "And don't pretend you didn't. You knew General Krag would ask me to take you back to Andoria."

Shran looked at the handcuffs Tares had used to ensure he stayed seated. "I did know," he conceded. "I … tried to do the right thing. Telling the Tellarites and Vulcans about the dilithium crystals, trying to regain their trust—the trust of my friends and ambassadors, was the right thing to do."

Tares hissed and shook her head. "You and I both know they would've eventually found out."

"And when they did – what would that do to our council?" he asked. "The Vulcans and Tellarites may have chosen to never trust us again."

"They may never now," she said.

"You're right," Shran agreed. "They may not. But … I think confessing goes a long way to mending any rifts. They are unhappy now. Imagine if they had found out through their own intelligence?"

Tares suggested, "You could've leaked the information to them through third-party sources. Like Kiar."

"I could've. But that wouldn't be right either. Andorians don't slink in back alleys like slalah, we stand up for what we believe in. We look our allies and our foes in the antennae … or eyes. We have integrity. Truth. We act with honor. The moment I started negotiating with the Pink Skin, I broke every code Andoria has. Every code I have."

Tares started to disagree when Shran sat back in his seat. "During the Vulcan-Andorian war, remember what the Queen used to say to motivate all Andorians?"

Tares shrugged and Shran leveled his gaze on her. "She said the Vulcans would lie to our antennae—cheat us and deceive our allies to win the war, but we would prevail because we had right on our side. Right, honor and the truth." An ironic laugh murmured from his mouth. "It's why Archer turned over the Vulcan spy station information to me and how we became … friends. It didn't sit well with him: that the Vulcans were liars."

"Thy'lek—"

"You know what happens next. I go to Andoria for a trial, and after they find me guilty—and they will, I'm sent to Pitak Karon if I'm lucky, where I won't ever see the light of day again or feel the cold, chill on my face. And if I'm unlucky, Rura Penthe."

"They won't send you to Rura Penthe. The Klingons hate us."

"Even the Klingons will welcome an enemy for the right price," Shran said.

Tares sighed again. "You brought this on yourself."

Shran was about to answer when Tares' communications device beeped. She reached down and flipped it open. "Gral – why are contacting me?"

She paused and looked back at Shran. "He's with me."

"Oh?" she asked. And then she turned around to look out the window, a chuckle leaving her lips.

Shran followed the movement of her head until he saw something out the window—an old, beat-up Tellarite shuttle-runner. The tiny brown vehicle sputtered and spewed smoke, its engine coughing as if it would stall at any moment. Even Shran could tell the shuttle was having trouble keeping up, the wings dipping and swerving.

Finally, the Tellarite vehicle got close enough that they could see who was in the cockpit. Gral, wearing a helmet and a pair of goggles, waved a long, sinewy finger.

"I'm not turning him over to you," Tares said as she put the device on speaker to continue to fly.

"Well, if you don't turn him over, I'm afraid I have no choice, but to shoot," Gral said with a grunt.

Tares laughed again when a laser shot fired over her bow. Immediately, she took evasive maneuvers and Shran knew the Tellarite-jalopy had been long ditched. Eventually, nearly five minutes later, a clanking noise appeared at starboard and Shran saw Gral again.

"Son of a putak," Shran said, unbelieving.

Gral snorted, "Tares, the Tellarite government would like you to hand over Blue."

Tares countered, "I know he's a friend—trust me, he's mine, too. But if I don't give him over to the Andorian government then-"

This time a shot whizzed close by and Shran for a second wondered if they were hit. Tares must've too as she started to head for Earth, Gral following close behind, and Shran wondered what the female had in mind.

"I don't want to fire on you, Gral," Tares said.

"Good, then don't."

"General Krag is expecting him in two Andorian days."

"I'm sure the general has been disappointed before," Gral said.

"The queen is also expecting him," Tares explained.

"Has she met him before?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Well, then she knows him and has already been disappointed by him," Gral said, gruffly.

Shran narrowed his eyes and shouted, "Hey! Are you rescuing me or insulting me?"

Tares' shuttle hovered above the ground and then eventually landed on a soft field. Before leaving the shuttle, she nabbed Shran's arm and forced him out along side her. Gral's Tellarite shuttle-runner clunked to the ground and then wheezed like an old man before coming to a halt. The little pig exited his vehicle, a laser-pistol aimed at Tares.

"Give me Shran," Gral said.

"Okay, but first you're going to have to shoot me," Tares said.

The pig took aim and then furrowed his snout. "I'm sure I didn't hear you."

"I instructed you to shoot me first," Tares clarified.

"Shoot you?" Gral asked, his weapon lowering.

Tares looked over at Shran and then back at Gral. "Yeah, if you want this to look real, you're going to have to shoot me."

"That's preposterous. No one is going to shoot anyone," he grunted.

"Look, I don't like it any more than you, but really … you're going to have to shoot me."

The ambassador squealed with disagreement. "I didn't say anything about harming you. I do not want to hurt you, I just want Shran."

"You were going to shoot the ship," Tares said.

"I thought I shot it," Gral offered. "I was almost positive."

"Didn't you think you might harm us?" Tares asked.

"Well, I actually had no intention of hitting the ship. My finger slipped," Gral straightened his little pig-like body. "I'm an ambassador. Those actions could start a war, at least intentionally."

Tares' antennae whirled and she sighed looking over at Shran. He shrugged.

"Gral is not a warrior," Shran said. "I believe his aim is so poor he actually hit our ship."

Gral narrowed his eyes and squealed, "I _have_ fired a weapon. Just … not this kind."

"Pull the trigger," Tares said. As if instructing him, she pointed to the notch under the barrel. "Those take really only a little pressure before releasing. I'd just prefer it if you hit my arm or leg."

Gral put the gun at his side. "I'm not going to aim it at any part of you."

Tares shook her head and looked at Shran as she removed his handcuffs. "Is he always like this?"

Thy'lek's mouth turned down, too as he massaged his wrists. "You're right, my friend, I _did_ know the sacrifice when I revealed the information about the dilithium crystals. I do not wish to leave Earth or my family, but I am prepared to face the queen. Gral, let us get back in the ship."

Tares said, "You're getting as sentimental as a Pink Skin," She then looked over at the pig and shook her head. "You give me no choice. I'll shoot myself."

Springing, Tares tackled Gral to the ground, his gun smacking against the ground. The two wrestled as Gral tried to keep his gun away from her, squealing pleas of help to Shran. Only a few seconds later Tares twisted the weapon from his hand as he lay on the ground staring up at the sky, goggles skewed and helmet lying next to him.

Gral, moaned softly, "Andorian females are like riding a wild bu-long. Dangerous."

"Oh, Tares is better than a female, she's zhen." Shran laughed, "Why do you think Andorian males crave them?"

Gral looked confused, but pushed himself up and snorted. "Now what?"

Tares winked at Shran. "Now, I suggest you take my shuttle. I left the keys inside."

"You left the keys inside?" Gral asked. "How did you know-?"

Shran said again, "Tares, you don't have to do this."

"You're right, I have a _choice_." And just as quickly as the words were said, she took the weapon in her left hand and fired at her right bicep. Immediately the woman hit the ground, blue blood splattering over her shirt and face as well as hitting Gral and Shran.

Gral looked alarmed at the blue liquid dripping from his beard, but Shran knelt down.

"We need a medic," Gral said, quickly.

Through the pain, Tares said, "Just hurry inside the shuttle. I'll call once you're in the air."

Shran touched her white hair and smirked. "Thank you. I owe you one."

"You never have forgotten a debt," Tares said, wincing.

Gral started to pull out his communcations device, when Shran took ripped it from his hand and threw it as far as he could. The Tellarite ambassador was about to head off and grab it, when Shran gathered the man in his grasp and dragged him to the ship.

When they stepped inside, Gral protested as Shran slid into the pilot's seat and fired up the engines for take off.

"She's hurt," Gral explained.

"She is, but it's not life threatening. Besides, Andorians are put to worse when we enter the military." Flipping a few switches and twisting a couple of nozzles, he looked back over his shoulder. "Don't worry. She'll call when we've left."

Gral scurried to the window to look out and groaned. "She is quite brave."

"Andorians usually are," Shran said. After turning a dial and noting the altimeter, he lowered his head as his antennae drooped. "Tares has always been brave, even when we were children together."

The ship lurched as they hit the clouds and Shran sighed as typed a course into the ship's computer.

"Where are we going?" Gral asked.

"To see the President and ask for asylum."

"The President … of _Earth_?" Gral asked. A snort huffed from his lips. "That's foolish, Blue!"

Shran's antennae leapt forward at the accusation. "Is it?"

"The humans were collaborating with the Tellarites. They will be angry at you for revealing their secrets," Gral said.

Remembering listening in on a conversation between Ambassador Simon and the President, Shran disagreed. "No, it sounded like the President was regretful of the decision to—" He stopped realizing he'd divulged that he's spied on the Earthlings.

Gral asked, "You mean, you talked with Earth's President?"

"Well … not exactly."

"Then how do you know?" Gral asked. Then the pig-like creature snorted as his snout wrinkled. "Blue! Don't tell me you spied on him?"

"Good. I won't mention it." He punched in more numbers and the shuttle veered starboard.

"Spying is against the orders of the council," Gral said, his voice low and gruff.

"These are extraordinary times," Shran said. "I was convinced Simon was gathering intelligence on Archer. It seems I was right, but … not for the reasons I believed." Gral seemed curious, so the Andorian continued. "The President wanted to ensure Archer's loyalty is with Earth and _not_ Vulcan."

The Blue male then smiled. "You know, I got those crazy kids together."

"I recall I had a firm hand in that," Gral disagreed. And then he sat down, his feet dangling without touching the shuttle's floor. "I suppose loyalty is not such a strange thing to ensure. My government would do the same for me if I were to marry an Andorian."

The two men looked each other up and down before Shran laughed and Gral grunted.

"Never happen," they said in unison.

With the new coordinates in and the shuttle speeding in that direction, quiet broke out. Even the engines barely hummed. In the silence, Shran hummed a laugh. "I can't believe you came to rescue me … especially in _that_ ship."

Gral growled a laugh, too. "It was an antique I had been hoping to continue storing." Then he furrowed his overgrown brow. "Don't get any ideas that you're special. I would've done that for most anyone."

Shran's smirk grew. "Anyone lucky enough to have you around, Shortie."

The Bridge crew was silent, waiting for another volley of Romulan missiles to strike, nuclear warheads to be jettisoned toward the enemy vessels, or their Captain, Melanie Vega, to die. Admiral Jonathan Archer was afraid of, but anticipating, all three.

The only noises that could be heard were the humming of spanners to fix broken equipment at the science, communications, and armory station. The only console that seemed to have any function was navigation, but with engines only able to move at impulse, it did little good.

Jon paced along the bridge and looked at Skon. The Vulcan seemed to spy the man's eyes on him and studied the admiral in return.

As if the Vulcan knew, he announced the amount of time Melanie had already been gone from the bridge. "Three minutes and fifty two seconds."

"Come on, Mel," Jon whispered to himself.

It was a long shot that Captain Vega could get the nuclear weapons out of armory safely, but she seemed like the only person aboard who could do so.

T'Pol, still dressed in her ambassador robes, pushed herself from underneath the scanner at the science station. Although her ceremonial robes seemed untarnished, a black smudge marred her cheek.

"I was able to return some function to the scanners," she said.

Jon's attention turned to his bondmate and his lips slid up into a half-smile as if proud that the ambassador was still the best science officer in Starfleet.

Admiral Archer said aloud, "Nice work. Let's see if we have any visitors."

T'Pol quickly peered into the device, the blue light shining on her face, as she turned the knob. "It is difficult to pinpoint in this nebulae, but I believe I have detected at least one vesssel." She gazed back into the scanner. "I cannot tell the type."

"Perhaps the Vulcans," T'Var surmised.

Mayweather scoffed, "Maybe Romulans or Orions."

Skon suggested, "Captain Stiles and Gupta are also in the nebula. There is a possibility it could be them, remote as it may be."

T'Pol said, "It is impossible to determine."

T'Var's held on to the device in her ear. "Admiral, I have rudimentary communication with Medical. It appears we have fifty two crewmen in Sickbay. Fifteen have perished."

Although he should've expected the high number of casualties, the statement felled Jon to the captain's chair.

Skon this time was the one that announced the inevitable, pointing to the screen. "I see a vessel firing."

Suddenly on the view screen, bombarded with static, a vessel flickered into existence, a green ship that resembled a hawk about to catch prey, as a ray of blue light emerged from it.

"Polarize hull plating," the admiral ordered. "Can you turn this vessel, Travis?"

Mayweather said, "Barely."

Jon then swung his gaze over to T'Pol, and reading her mind announced the new direction. "Starboard by one hundred and eight degrees."

The man at armory pounded his fist into the console. "I have absolutely no responsiveness. Weapons are offline."

"Wouldn't help much anyway," Jon said.

The vessel even in its degraded state, crippled, swung around to take a blow on the starboard hull, the area best able to handle additional damage. This time Panama shook, but remained mostly in tact. T'Var held the device sticking out of her ear again.

"Sir, I now have a report of another fatality. Most of the engineering staff are now in Sickbay."

Jon's jaw tightened and he walked over to T'Var. "Can you communicate outside this vessel?"

T'Pol stood, intercepting her bondmate's mind. "It is rumored Romulans take no prisoners, only slaves."

Skon seemed to agree, "Captain Vega still has time. We should at least give her the full amount."

Jon nodded. "I'm just trying to give us options. And … buy us a little time."

T'Pol opened her mouth to object again when Jon asked T'Var the question once more. "Can you communicate outside this vessel?"

T'Var checked her readings and watched Skon. "I am uncertain. Communication, even with those aboard the Panama, is difficult."

Jon said, "Open a channel. And give a distress call on all frequencies."

"Not just our allies' communication channels?" T'Var asked.

T'Pol said again, "Jonathan—"

"T'Var, a distress call. All channels."

The Vulcan woman at communications took a shallow breath and hunched over her console, her fingers flying across it. After only a few seconds, her eyes locked with her admiral's.

"I believe I have acknowledgement," she whispered. "The universal translator is having some difficulty though. We have only translated five hundred words."

"Lt. Sato said it was one hell of a language." He gave a timid smile as he thought about Hoshi and the fact she'd been working on the translation for years. "We can't send it to the view screen, can we?"

"No, sir," T'Var said. "I can attempt to repair it; however,-"

"Unnecessary," Jon said. "You fielding comm. reports is more important."

And then the speakers overhead crackled. T'Var gave a single nod to let the admiral know his voice would be broadcast to the Romulans.

"This is Admiral Archer of the Panama."

A metallic voice rang out over the speakers. "Commander Turok." Something that almost sounded like a laugh echoed. "You surrender?"

"I would like to look at the conditions of surrender," Archer said.

The Romulan laughed again. "I have asked my crew to send you the Empire's articles. You are fortunate that you did not offer up yourself to the Orions—they have no surrender conditions."

T'Var sat at her station and Archer perched over her shoulder. "Sir, the data has been received and translated."

The first article caused Jon to gasp. In the first sentence of the first paragraph of the document, it claimed, "All crew become Romulan property."

Jon looked over at T'Pol and could feel her repress a shiver. He dared to read the second article, where it claimed that property was to be dealt with by the commander of the vessel. The only phrase that could come to his mind was "spoils of war."

Archer thumbed the comm again. "I'm not sure we can accept these conditions."

"You have no choice," the metallic voice said again. "A squad has been launched from our bay to board you."

The man at armory immediately moved and began opening the weapons locker.

"No," Archer said to the bridge officer. Then he responded carefully into the comm, "I suppose we _don't_ have a choice. Do I have any assurances my crew won't be harmed."

The armory officer took out a weapon anyway.

"Assurances?" Turok asked.

Jon said again, "Yes, guarantees my crew won't be harmed."

The voice laughed. "Romulans never give such guarantees. Why should we now?"

"Because it's decent," Archer growled.

"Decent. I'm unaware of the meaning," the commander said. Before Jon could explain, using expletives, the commander interrupted. "Power down your vessel."

"I haven't read through all the articles yet," Archer complained. "I'll need at least twenty Earth minutes to comply."

The voice snarled, "You have ten."

Archer leaned over, but T'Var cut him off. "Sir, the communications channel has closed."

Skon provided the latest update. "Captain Vega does not have long."

Archer turned to T'Var, "Get Vega on the line."

T'Var held the device to her ear and then explained that there was more static on the line than in other decks.

Mel's voice sounded tired and out of breath. "I'm in Armory."

"We're running out of time, Mel," he said.

Her voice sounded strained. "Jon, one of the nuclear weapons was damaged. But I think I got here just in time."

T'Pol strode quickly to her scanner and gazed in. "I'm reading higher radiation levels in Armory."

Worried, Jon asked, "The radiation-?"

As if anticipating the question, T'Pol responded. "The radiation has not made it outside Armory."

Archer frowned. "Mel—"

"I vented the radiation into space," she said. Before Jon could ask her anything else, she offered up, "The jettison tube for the nukes was stuck."

Static hit the line and the next thing they heard was "—into space."

The admiral leaned over and shook his head. "Listen, the dosage of radiation you took is probably—"

"Once I blow the door," she said. "I expect you all to get the hell out of here."

Static rang out again.

"Mel—"

"Admiral, my ship and crew are in your hands."

"Mel—"

"You do outrank me," she said, a hint of amusement in her voice. "So, I suppose I can only _hope_ you follow my orders."

"Mel, I—"

"Admiral … Jon …. It has been a distinct honor serving with you, my friend."

Archer shook his head. "Listen—"

"It's been an honor being the captain of my crew. Best damned crew in the fleet. Couldn't have picked a better team. I'm so proud of each of them."

Jon leaned into the comm more, his voice hoarse. "If you—"

And then the next thing that anyone on the Bridge heard was T'Pol's voice. "She has opened the emergency door to the Armory. I'm reading the nuclear warheads are away."

Mayweather clarified quietly, "The emergency hatch would send _everything_ into space."

"Can we transport her?" Jon asked, his voice panicked.

"Our transporter is offline," T'Pol said.

"Admiral, we have merely nine minutes and fifty six seconds before those warheads detonate," Skon reminded. "Captain Vega provided us additional time we cannot waste."

"There is nothing we can do," T'Pol said, gently.

"Forgive me, Mel." Jon took a deep breath and nodded, turning to T'Var. "Order all personnel to empty their trash."

"Sir?" asked the Vulcan woman.

"You heard me," he said.

T'Var shot an eyebrow up as Skon explained. "I believe the Admiral is attempting to hide the warheads in the debris."

Archer didn't confirm, but instead asked, "Travis, give me all she's got."

"It's not much, sir. Impulse is the best I can do," Mayweather said.

"Do it."

Jon watched the view screen, which flickered in and out, as trash floated by. He couldn't see the warheads, but he also couldn't see the body of Panama's captain float by.

A hail came in and T'Var put it on speakers. The metallic voice rang out with glee.

"I see you are having trouble with your sanitation and engines," Commander Turok laughed. "Earth vessels. So weak."

"Yes, we're adrift," Jon lied. "I still have a few minutes to finish reading the articles."

"You should not bother reading when your ship is falling apart around you," the Romulan voice said. The channel was cut.

Skon walked to the admiral and provided a quiet update. "Seven minutes and fifty one seconds before detonation. We will not have achieved the appropriate distance. We will be caught in the explosion."

"Polarize hull plating on my mark," Jon told Mayweather.

"Yes, sir," Travis replied.

"We _may_ be able to propel ourselves further," T'Pol offered.

Archer commented, hearing his wife's suggestion in his mind, "I didn't realize you'd become so devious, T'Pol."

"You call it devious, I believe it to be resourceful," she countered.

"Coordinate with T'Var," Archer said.

The Vulcan crossed her station to go to communications and the two Vulcan women discussed the plan as Skon intercepted the admiral.

"Do what?" Skon asked.

Jon was about to divulge the plan when Mayweather's voice interrupted them. "Sir, I see the Romulan shuttle."

"Can we send a crew to that part of the ship?" Archer asked.

T'Var held the device in her ear, checking. "Negative, sir."

The armory officer growled. "At least I'll get to see what the bastards look like." The short man held a rifle he'd already taken from the locker aloft.

Archer asked, "Skon, how many minutes until detonation?"

"Six minutes and twenty seven seconds," he said. "Rounding up."

Jon gave a brief smile and then shut his eyes. "Contact the Romulan ship."

Mayweather frowned. "Sir, I'm with Ambassador T'Pol. I think it might be preferable to blow up the ship than give in to the Romulans."

Jon patted the navigations officer on the back and repeated his order. "T'Var, contact the ship."

T'Var did so and Archer heard the comm. line over the speakers. His grin grew. "I have read the articles you sent me."

"Finally," the commander retorted. "It has been some time since we have captured an admiral. You will be paraded in the streets. And the most desirable among your females offered to this ship's crew and our emperor."

Mayweather shook just about to erupt when Archer smiled at the vacant screen. "Actually, I have decided we won't be surrendering at all."

The Romulan laughed. "Oh? What lunacy is this?"

"Not crazy at all," Archer said. "I have sent a counterproposal for you and your government to consider."

"Counterproposal?"

"Yes, _your_ surrender."

The Romulan laughed.

"T'Pol, now might be a good time," Archer said.

Suddenly an explosion erupted from Panama sending nearly everyone on the bridge to the deck plating. Mayweather got to his controls first and noted the new direction and distance.

"What happened?" Travis asked.

T'Pol scrambled to her science station and peered into the blue light as the device whirred. "It appears our nacelles have exploded."

"What?" Mayweather asked.

Archer got to the captain's chair and leaned over, his thumb and forefinger rubbing together. "Good."

Skon got up and righted his robes as if smoothing out the smallest wrinkle. "I believe the idea T'Pol had was to explode the nacelles so we could gather more speed." The Vulcan arched an eyebrow and then commented to the ambassador. "Brilliant."

"Thank you," T'Pol said.

"What about the crew?" Mayweather asked, confused.

"We successfully evacuated all personnel left," T'Var said. "And, Admiral, they appear to be in Sickbay awaiting further instruction."

Mayweather shook his head and looked at the console. "We're gaining speed. Not quiet warp, but … we're hauling it."

"The warheads," T'Pol reminded. "We have less than a minute left and the shockwaves from the nacelles—"

"Polarize hull plating, Travis," Jon said.

T'Var sent the image of space onto the view screen. Fire erupted again from what used to be engineering. The nacelles sputtered and fizzled, further crippled, as coolant leaked from slender tubes. Then the communications officer tapped her fingers across the console again and on-screen was another explosion, one much larger—an inferno that seemed to detonate ships across the nebula in a mushroom cloud. The sound boomed like fireworks and the shockwave sent everyone again onto the floor as the ship lurched sideways.

"We still do not have enough distance," Skon replied.

T'Pol confirmed, "The radiation fallout will reach us in less than five minutes."

The view screen showed instead of the flickering view of the rainbow-colored nebula they were entering black with a star field of white. As the ship continued forward, Travis called out.

"Out here, we're also sitting ducks."

"I'm hoping the Vulcans just got a giant distress call," Archer said.

"If they are within range," Skon said. And as Archer narrowed his eyes at him, he pointed his fingers under his chin. "I understand, it was a calculated risk."

"How much radiation can we take before—" Archer started.

"Not much, possibly—" T'Pol was interrupted by a beep at her console and she left mid-sentence to peer into her scanner. "I am reading a vessel approaching."

"What kind?" Archer asked.

A ship suddenly blinked into existence as if just coming out of warp. It looked like a squid and was a metallic blue. An Andorian captain suddenly appeared on the view screen. His blue antennae twisted and his white hair looked like a mop on his egg-shaped head. He sneered much like Shran did when they'd first interacted with him.

"I'm Commander Sav of the Gol. We're towing you, Captain. And unless you'd like to end up as charred ash, you'll accept our help."

"_Admiral_ Archer of Panama, and I accept," said Jon. "We have two more ships—"

"Admiral Archer?" The blue man smiled. "Fate is tarpig. Yes, yes, the Vulcans have your other ships." The commander then looked down at his console and sported a smile. "Hold onto your pink skins." The Andorian saw the Vulcans and his lips curled. "Or your ears."

Panama lurched under the tractor device from the Andorian ship and as the nebula lit up with green and yellow vapors, the two vessels blinked out of existence.


	51. Chapter 51

As the view screen in front of them showed nothing but stars whizzing by, T'Var acknowledged a beep at her station and at Admiral Archer's request showed the image.

An Andorian appeared, dressed in the battle garments of his people—a black leather-looking catsuit. This Andorian was lithe like most of his species and sported a coil, almost like an earring, in his left antennae. He smiled, his teeth having the slightest blue tint against his tongue, as his antennae whirled.

"_Admiral_ Archer," he said. "I'm taking you to the nearest space dock for repairs. There you can rendezvous with the other Earth vessels." Puffing out his chest he boasted, "The Vulcans took your other ships to _our_ station."

T'Pol crossed over to her scanner and then provided additional information. "I believe he is referring to Andoria's Talon Station."

"That's right, Vulcan. Talon Ukrat," Sav replied. "I know it's not exactly an Earth station or a boring Vulcan station." He smiled churlishly. "But it should do."

"I'm sure it will, thank you. I'll let Starfleet know our location," Archer answered.

Skon raised his eyebrows. "Talon Station is fortuitous. It would take us less than a day to reach Vulcan and continue our original mission to discuss Coridan with Minister T'Pau, Ambassador."

"And we should be able to have Panama towed to Starbase McKinley as well as get those in Sickbay help," Archer said, gravely.

Mayweather seemed delighted. "I've always wanted to see Talon Station. I've heard _stories_ about that place."

"Oh yes. Those stories are absolutely true," Sav agreed. "Orion women at every bar, parties every night, nearly anything available from the black market, Andorian ale flowing even in our mess halls, zhen as far as the antennae can feel …."

Archer coughed into his hand. "We'll have to keep a tight duty roster there," he confirmed. "Thank you, Commander Sav, we appreciate your help."

"You owe me one, Admiral," the Andorian said.

Ambassador T'Pol crossed the bridge and said what the admiral was also thinking. "There is something oddly familiar about him," she whispered.

Archer nodded. "Have we met before, Commander Sav?"

"No," he said. "But I believe you know my littermate."

"Littermate?" Archer asked.

"Sibling," Skon said.

"I believe I just said that _Vulcan_," Sav growled.

"Thy'lek Shran," Archer, T'Pol, Mayweather, and the Commander said simultaneously.

Sav smiled again. "When we get to the station, I'd like to discuss how you can settle your debt to me and my family. Without the _Vulcan_," he said. His eyes narrowed and he grimaced at T'Pol, Skon, and T'Var. "Join me at Femut at oh-eight-hundred hours tomorrow. And bring some money."

"My wife—" Archer began and then the view screen cut out. The admiral sighed and held the bridge of his nose. "Who would've thought there were two of Shran in this universe?"

Skon offered, "Actually the odds of an Andorian having siblings is approximately eighty five point two nine percent, rounding up of course. Andorians are prolific. Their familial arrangements, sometimes with four parents, provide an ample population. Most likely the only reason an Andorian would not have siblings would be due to an untimely death. Although their species is long-lived, I believe humans would say they 'live hard.'"

Archer furrowed his brow and Skon poked his up in the air in response. "I was answering your question, Admiral."

"It was a _rhetorical_ question," Archer said.

Skon turned his attention to Ambassador T'Pol. "I have yet to understand why humans ask questions they do not mean to have answered."

T'Var agreed, "It is beyond logic."

"Who ever accused the _humans_ of being _logical_?" T'Pol said, amusement in her eyes.

Archer produced a lopsided smile and then looked at Mayweather. "I think the Vulcans are making a joke."

Mayweather agreed. "Yeah, at our expense." And then he grinned at his admiral. "Wouldn't be the first time."

Archer chuckled. "Agreed. T'Var, send a report of casualties to the ready room and ask Dr. Phlox if he needs any assistance. Mayweather, you have the con." Just as he spoke those words, he immediately lost his merriment, walking into the office directly behind the bridge.

T'Pol followed him, much as she would've more than ten years ago when she was his first officer. However, rather than ring the chime, she took a deep breath, placed her hands behind her back and strolled in as if her bond mate expected her. Although mentally he was trying to let her know he'd rather be alone, she knew him well enough to understand he needed some comfort over the loss of his friend, Captain Vega.

As the door slid open and closed, she spied Archer gazing out the window at the stars speeding by. It was something she'd seen him do countless times before, particularly in the Expanse.

"Captain Vega—" she began.

"Mel was an excellent captain and a good friend," he said. As she walked over to him and placed a hand on his shoulder, he turned. "She saved my life, T'Pol. More than once. If it wasn't for her, I'm not sure we'd be here now. Together."

"I know," she said. "You should arrange a funeral for her as soon as possible. The crew will also mourn her loss."

Bitter, he huffed as he stared back at space. "It's customary to send a body into space, but … we don't even have that." He paused as several minutes passed by and she heard him whisper, "I get tired of friends and crew dying for no reason."

"No reason? Many have perished in this war. But I believe they died for a good cause — to prevent us from joining the Empire. You read some of the Romulan articles of 'surrender,' you know what is at stake."

Archer slowly nodded his head, but seemed undeterred from brooding. Furrowed brow, he continued to let his eyes roam, unfocused, at space.

"I have to agree with Travis," he said. "I'd rather blow up the ship than let the crew fall to the Romulans. I think death would be preferable." His jaw tightened and he growled. "I can't believe that prisoners would become slaves …." His voice faltered for more words.

She knew his meaning. The crewwomen would be the concubine of Romulan men, military and senate alike to displays like trophies. "Spoils of war. I did not think our ancient brethren could be so barbaric."

Jon nodded. "I can't believe you share DNA with them."

"Nor can I. But this Romulan threat is precisely why Captain Vega gave her life," T'Pol whispered. "To save us and to prevent Earth, Vulcan, Andoria, Tellar, and more from submitting to their will."

"All these deaths." His voice turned hoarse. "It started with Trip."

"It started with Admiral Forrest," she said. "The Romulans orchestrated the destruction of the Vulcan embassy long before the Arali attempted to take the dillithium crystals from Enterprise, killing Trip in the process."

"It didn't end there. Max, Trip, Erika …." He sighed long and low, his shoulders rolled forward.

"All the ambassador we served with. Starfleet personnel. Vulcans, Andorians, Tellarites …" Quietly, she added another death toll. "My mother."

In an instant they shared their emotion — an unending sorrow for fallen comrades, friends, and family. Black, like a shroud, it wrapped around her and threatened to strangle her. She nearly gasped at the intensity as she backed away from him.

"Isn't that why we're here?" she asked, her voice soft.

Although he continued to watch out the portal, his hand nabbed hers and he held it. "Yes."

T'Pol squeezed his hand and he looked over his shoulder, his eyes dark and a frown spreading across his face. The Vulcan said, "Know this, I grieve with thee. Your pain is my own. And my pain is yours."

"I know," he said, facing her.

He closed his eyes and the two stood in silence for several minutes as she felt the waves of grief threaten to overcome them both. Rather than yield, she breathed deeply through each one, examining and suppressing the emotion, as she felt her husband wrestle with them, his throat tightening and his stomach twisting. So she closed her eyes as if to blanket them both in comfort, to relax his neck and help him take deeper breaths. Tapping her fingers between his thumb and index finger, she felt his body ease.

"Sometimes, humans want to feel grief," he whispered to her. His eyes opened and his thumb stroked her cheek.

"I know." And then she stepped away from him as he studied her and blew out a long breath. She was about to say more, when she felt a barrier between them. It told her that he wanted to ruminate in his grief in solitude. He changed the subject quickly with worry in his voice.

"The Pon Farr …?" he asked.

"I am much better than when I first boarded this vessel. I am certain you can feel the urgent need has vanished," she said.

"I still feel the embers occasionally, the remnants," he told her. "I know you do, too."

"They are easily extinguishable," she said.

He licked his lips. "Tonight, perhaps we can share our grief and stoke them instead."

They gazed into each others' eyes, searching and reading each other's thoughts. It was her turn to change the timbre of the conversation and divert to other important matters between them.

"It is fortunate we will return to Vulcan," she said. "We need the assistance of Coridan if we hope to thwart the Romulans."

She could feel him question whether she would attempt Kolinahr. And she narrowed her eyes at her mate.

"No," she said quietly. "I realize that is no longer my path."

Through the bond, she shared that her marriage to Jonathan led her to an epiphany that was more than ten years in the making. She understood emotion and placed value in it, even back in Sausalito before joining Enterprise. After studying the humans, she realized they, like her now husband, showed great compassion even when illogical. She had witnessed this compassion and recognized it to be one of the greatest emotions and often even when illogical was the correct course of action. She attributed emotion to bringing the races together to fight the Romulans, Arali and Orions.

And yet unlike the V'tosh ka'tur, the Vulcans who showed emotions, she understood how vital logic was to those on her planet. It was why she meditated, did not partake of meat, and continued to suppress emotion. Then and only then, could she appreciate emotion and understand it without allowing it to take control.

Loss of control and its consequences, thanks to trellium use — it was a difficult lesson she learned in the Expanse.

"Logic and emotion can exist together, but it is a delicate balance. By suppressing emotions, I remained balanced unlike the V'tosh katur. I cannot and will not turn my back on logic, nor can I completely spurn emotion. After all, you are a human and emotional. And I value you and the emotions you bring to our marriage."

He produced a lopsided smile. "We are one."

"Yes," she replied.

Again their fingers touched as a married Vulcan couple. The sensation buzzed along her hand and she asked what he could hear in his mind.

"Will you be able to join me on Vulcan?" she asked, a modicum of fear in her voice as if she knew his answer.

"Possibly, but it may be a few weeks. I'll most likely stay on the station until the entire crew is reassigned. I don't know what Starfleet has in store for me after that."

"It seems we continue to be rejoined only to part," she said.

"Parted from me, and never parted," he whispered to her.

Her hand cupped his face. "Yes."

He kissed her and when they finally broke apart, he sighed in contentment.

"If possible I'll see if I can have at least a brief shore leave on Vulcan. After all, the priest has a ceremony to perform," he said. "A wedding."

T'Pol watched him. "We are already married. We do not need a priest to join us further. And I do not need the approval of my government to recognize we are one."

"That's true." His lips sloped up. "So, are you going to start introducing yourself as Mrs. T'Pol Archer?"

"I believe my title is _Ambassador_."

He grinned. "Okay, Ambassador T'Pol Archer."

"It is customary on my planet to _join_ last names," she said.

He furrowed his brow almost embarrassed at the new information. "T'Pol, I didn't realize you had a last name."

"You would not be able to pronounce it. It is the concatenation of the last names of generations of ancestors as well as the city of my birth and theirs." She paused and put her hands behind her back. "It is why even Vulcans prefer to use first names."

Through the bond, she revealed it to him, and even in her mind it took nearly five minutes to pronounce.

"That's one hell of a last name," he said. "Uh, maybe we can stick with just Archer? If the Vulcans don't have the patience to say Vulcan last names, no one else in this universe will."

Amused, her eyes twinkled. "You have a point."

"Still, I'd like to learn how to say your last name."

"I will teach you; however, it may help to learn the most rudimentary Vulcan first. Otherwise you might sprain your tongue."

He scoffed, "Thanks to Surak's memories, I know a few Vulcan words."

"Yes, but you pronounce the majority of them poorly. Some training would help."

He narrowed his eyes, as the grin on his face widened. "Ha, tal-kam."

She perched an eyebrow at his terrible pronunciation of 'yes dear' and walked toward the door. "As you would say, 'I rest my case.'" The woman put her hands behind her back and then paused at the door, turning. "I will give using Archer as my last name some consideration."

He purred a laugh. "I'm fond of it. I'm sure it'll grow on you."

More serious, she said, "In the meantime, I will lend my services to Dr. Phlox. He undoubtedly needs my help with the injured. Perhaps Skon can assist."

"Thanks." Jon nodded. "I'll come down to Sickbay as soon as I speak with Starfleet."

With that, she turned to leave and noticed he pointed his gaze back at the stars. She crossed the threshold of the captain's ready room knowing he would contact them soon, but needed a few more minutes to mourn the loss of his friend and the other Panama crew members who'd given their lives. She couldn't help but bow her head as well.

* * *

As Shran piloted the vehicle, flying above Earth's clouds, Gral continued to work to convince the Andorian to listen to reason. The ship started to descend at twilight, and Gral could see the arc of the Golden Gate Bridge fast approaching. Grunting, he thought it looked similar to the Bridge of Gorgos over the river Rak where the giant Krul swam.

Shran seemed to be waxing philosophic, mumbling to himself about honor and talking with the president. His antennae were nearly twisted in the commotion.

Finally Gral snorted. "We cannot go to the _Prime Minister_ for sanctuary. It's a fool's journey," the pig said. "It would mean an intergalactic incident if they took you in when the Andorians want your skinny Blue hide. I don't think even the Earthlings are naïve enough to do that."

"President, Prime Minister," Shran waved his hand. "It's all the same to me. I think they call it demography."

Gral grunted a laugh. He knew it was called democracy, but couldn't help chuckle at the Earthling's expense. Unlike his senate where representatives argued for years about bills, the humans seem to give matters little thought and kowtow to each other so easily.

Shran continued to steer the ship closer to Sausalito. "You have a better idea?"

Gral stroked his beard. "What if we do nothing?"

"Nothing?" Shran asked. "That will never work."

"Tellar is too far away and so is Andoria. We can live here without fear of being taken. The Earthlings surely will not hand us over at least without considerable negotiation. And in the process, we may be able to bargain for some assistance to plead our case. Someone to act as an intermediary that will once again get our planets to ally more easily."

"The Pink Skin is off fighting the war," Shran said.

"I'm not talking about Archer," the pig squealed.

"T'Pol is probably discussing Coridan with Minister T'Pau by now."

"I'm not speaking of Skinny either."

"Kiar? The little gold guy's people _could_ help us win the war."

"Yes, but I'm not talking about him either."

"Who?"

"I'm sure we could reason with Simon."

Shran practically yelled, "Simon? Neville Simon? Have you lost your mind?" The vehicle shook under their feet and Gral nearly lost his balance as the Andorian finished the tirade. "He's the tarpig that threatened to break up the council. He is the derog that forced everyone to seek out a peace treaty with the Romulans. He is the last man on Earth I believe I would ask for help."

"He has not withdrawn his support of the council. Nor will Staron. If the four of us work together-"

"You heard Pointy Ear's comments. Staron said T'Pau is considering backing out of the war."

"I said as much, too, that Tellar would withdraw. But here I am," he said. "And although Tyr bellows that he will remove support, he knows the Romulans are the greatest threat to the universe."

The Andorian huffed, his antennae drooping. "I don't know, Gral. Other Tellarites aren't like you. Your veins run as blue as ice." He thumped his chest, giving the Imperial Guard greeting.

"That's an insulting thing to say," Gral grunted.

The Andorian chuckled. "Why would Simon help us more than the President?"

"If we go to the Prime Minister, we cannot continue the council," Gral said. "It will be disbanded."

"If we don't, it'll be disbanded." Shran typed in a few commands and whirled around in his seat to face Gral. "I think going straight to the top is the best chance we have."

"Simon will assist us in bridging that gap with the Prime Minister."

Shran waved a hand in the air as if to declare how absurd the idea was, but Gral was undeterred.

Gral asked, "Who is the best negotiator in the council?"

"You mean after me?" Shran asked.

"After _you_? You're the worst!"

"All right, it's not my best strength. Fine. You must mean T'Pol."

"No." Gral snorted. "_I am._ Trust me to arrange this."

Shran scratched his white mop of hair as if to actually consider the idea. And then he put his elbows on his knees, a gesture that seemed to mimic what the Pink Skin would've done.

"Gral, I'm worried that unless we get the very top involved, our families may be harmed. Tellar and Andoria are far away, but not that far from General Crag's reach."

Gral put a skinny hand on his shoulder. "I know my suggestion is putting your family in danger. I would not suggest it unless I knew this was the best way."

Shran huffed and then said, "I give it two Earth days to work. And if we end up in a pink skin jail, awaiting departure for Rura Penthe, I will never forgive you."

"That won't happen." Giving something Shran called a grimace, he smiled—his teeth showing. "You can count on me. Arguing, negotiating – it is what I was born to do."

Shran watched as he said, "Fine, we go to Simon, but I have to move my family first." And then he turned to Gral. "Do you know how to change an Andorian slu-lu? Shras usually needs a new one about now."

"Slu-lu?" Gral asked.

"Yes, what he wears under his black leather onesie."

"You're his father—aren't you supposed to change it?" Gral queried.

"Who's going to fly this thing?" he asked. And then his antennae lurched forward. "It is an honor to change his slu-lu. If the Pink Skin or the Vulcan were here, I'd be asking them. That's what they were chosen to do."

Gral groaned.

* * *

Jon paced around the small Ready Room, ducking his head as he wandered under beams while Admiral Matt Gardner's visage appeared on the small screen. The stocky, grey-bearded man was settled at his desk, looking weary as if the war had taken its toll on him, too.

"Jon," he said with a weary smile. "I feared the worst. I've already heard from Captains Stiles and Gupta. It sounds like it was a hell of a fight out there. They've taken serious damage." The man then looked down at his hands. "And loss of life."

"We have as well," Archer said. "Captain Vega … she risked her life to save this vessel."

Matt frowned more. "Melanie. After this war, I was planning on giving her a promotion."

Jon let out a deep breath. "She would've deserved it."

"I'll let her parents know," Matt said.

"If you don't mind, I'd like to contact them. I can personally thank them that way and let them know how she perished — how she died helping save everyone aboard. How she may've helped be the turning point for the war."

"You took a few Romulan with you?" Matt asked.

"Yes. Maybe as many as three." Archer hung onto a beam. "Not exactly an armada, but a start."

"How's the crew?" Matt asked.

"Forty five people are still in Sickbay, twelve in serious condition, and we've had twenty one deaths. Dr. Phlox has his hands full, but we have several volunteers assisting him."

"Good. And the Panama? How's the ship holding up?"

Jon said, "It'll take considerable time to get repaired. Time we don't have right now. Nacelles were blown off and we have structural damage."

Getting behind the desk, he typed a few commands on his keyboard to provide the latest reports to Matt. The superior admiral acknowledged with a low whistle. "We'll arrange for the vessel to be towed. Where should I send a tow-vessel?"

"We're heading to Talon Station. Commander Sav of Andoria is currently taking us there. From the station, Ambassador T'Pol and her aide, Skon, will leave for Vulcan."

"Captain Stiles let me know that congratulations are in order," he said.

"I haven't spoken to him since we left the nebulae," Jon complained.

"He wasn't sure whether you'd made it, but … he indicated your Vulcan wife had an idea that it sounds like saved three Starfleet ships. Although, that wasn't exactly the way he put it," Matt said. "Not really rocket science to figure out the Vulcan wife that is also brilliant at strategy."

Jon squirmed and noted, "We haven't told many people yet, including Minister T'Pau, so I'd appreciate it if you kept it on the down low. But … yes, Ambassador T'Pol and I are married."

"Phlox wed you?" he asked.

Jon thought that wasn't such a bad idea. "No, it's … it's a long story."

"I doubt Talon Station is a great place to honeymoon," Matt replied. "At least for a Vulcan."

Archer smiled thinking he'd already had a honeymoon of a sorts. Although it wasn't a tropical locale, it included plenty of nookie. He searched for a response when thankfully, Matt spoke up again.

"I'm surprised the Andorians offered refuge there and I'm shocked, frankly, that the Vulcans agreed to take Stiles and Gupta's ships there."

"Talon Station is a little rough around the edges, but—" Archer started.

"No, I mean … while you were gone the council has had some setbacks. All the races are threatening to withdraw support of this war."

Archer leaned in. "General Krag is backing down? I doubt he or Minister T'Pau—"

"Remember that … _transaction_ … you discussed with Ambassador Shran?" Matt asked.

"The dilithium crystals?"

Matt sighed. "The Andorians were literally one month away from finishing their experimental warship when Shran told the other council members of our … arrangement."

Archer narrowed his eyes. "It would've come out anyway."

"Later would've been preferable. Your Andorian friend has put us in a compromising situation. Both Minister T'Pau and Tyr have announced their intention to withdraw support for this war."

Jon argued, "Minister T'Pau would never back down. And I doubt Tyr would either."

"Well, they sure as hell know how to bluff then. I just met with Prime Minister Pelletier – he said they have a meeting set up for tomorrow. He said it didn't seem promising." Matt leaned back in his chair. "I'm not sure the technological advances were worth it. Then again I'm starting to think the idea of a council was a mistake."

Archer sighed. "We wanted to reach space to meet new life forms. To … explore places no one has ever been to before. With an alliance, friendly aliens who are united, we could work together to—"

"Jon, no offense, but you're dreaming. You told me before you headed into the Expanse you were starting to wonder about the merits of interacting with new species."

"That was different." Archer hung his head. "_I_ was different. Earth had just been attacked." He looked at the screen. "I learned from that experience an alliance, one with the Xindi, is what saved our planet. I think the same alliance could continue to benefit mankind from other threats – like the Romulans."

"Well, there's nothing you can do now," Matt said. His face eventually gave way to a small smile. "On a personal front, you'll be happy to know that two of your old crew members were married this past weekend."

"Malcolm and Hoshi." Jon smiled and then let his shoulders sag. "I wish I could've seen it. How was it? Hoshi told me they'd settled at having it at Golden Gate Park."

Matt grinned. "They had it aboard a catamaran circling Treasure Island."

"A boat?" Archer asked. "Malcolm's afraid of water."

"That explains why he was so seasick. I personally chalked it up to nerves." Matt and Archer chuckled together. "The party at the wharf was amazing. I think nearly every member of Starfleet showed up."

"I wonder if they did it for the Reed family – their all from the Navy."

Matt nodded. "I met his father. He seemed resigned that his son is one of the best damned security personnel we have at Starfleet. I got the impression they'd been arguing about him entering Starfleet for some time."

Archer nodded and then smiled, thinking Malcolm deserved some praise from Matt and was happy that settled whatever feud had brewed for years about the Navy vs. Starfleet.

"Are they honeymooning?" Archer asked.

"Captain Reed confided in me that she'd convinced him to go to the tropics. I'm not sure where," he said.

Archer smiled. "I hope you can send some pictures."

"I'm sure the Reeds would like to send those pictures themselves," Matt said.

"If you see them, wish them my best." And then without skipping a beat, as if listening to another voice in his head, he nodded, adding, "Our best. T'Pol is thrilled, Vulcanly of course, for them."

Matt looked confused and asked, "I didn't realize she was in the room with you."

Archer sighed thinking it was easier to lie than explain the truth. "She just came in. Anyway, I'll contact you when we reach Talon Station."

"Excellent, I'll know the new assignment then."

The transmission ended and Archer wondered whether Hoshi had convinced Reed to go to South America where she could surreptitiously study Amazonian dialects. The idea made him smile.

* * *

T'Pol reached Sickbay and instantly realized Dr. Phlox, albeit capable, had his hands more than full. Volunteers had poured in to help all over the ship, but even that wasn't enough to keep up with the constant churn: new crew members arriving with injuries, those unable to get to the medical facility, and crewmen whose wounds were already addressed in various forms of recuperation.

Skon watched as well. "I have not been privy to such a sight before."

T'Pol watched her friend, his face pale. Although she would never accuse her aide of emotion, she wondered if he was sickened at the sight of so much blood. Gently, she placed a hand on his arm.

"The ravages of war," T'Pol said. "I believe it is worthwhile for diplomats to see war's outcome so they fully understand its consequences."

Skon raised an eyebrow at her. "That is an excellent observation. One I will endeavor to remember."

T'Pol walked over to the doctor whose hair was flying nearly in all directions. He was sweaty and his typical overextended smile had vanished. Instead, he seemed focused on the job at hand. In the middle of reviewing a young woman's vital signs, he barely glanced over at her.

"I assume you are here to help?" he asked, without the mirth that typically saturated his voice. He jotted a few notes down on a PADD and explained to the young woman. "I believe you have a concussion. I'd like you to stay here for a few hours for observation."

"My post—" the woman began.

"Don't worry about that," Dr. Phlox replied. He helped his patient off the biobed and then pointed her over to a chair across the medical facility.

T'Pol said, "Yes, I'm here to help."

"Thank Greevnik!" he said. Without missing a beat, he thrust a PADD at her and began reeling through what he needed. "Two of my physician's aides perished, including the one who organized this medical facility. Although I have volunteers pouring in for all over the ship, I have absolutely no way to determine how much medical experience they have and appropriately schedule them for shifts. I merely have been triaging everyone who comes in and assigning someone to watch those who need less help."

As if proving his point, a crew member carried in a wounded friend. "Doc! A relay blew up only near his face. I'm not sure he can see."

Dr. Phlox scurried over to him and began reviewing the man. And although the doctor knew everyone's name, his brain seemed rattled. Snapping his fingers, he said, "You, over there, Ensign." A man who was talking to a woman with a bandage on her arm came to attention. "I'd like to get a few Semarian eels. Can you catch one?"

The man recoiled, but did as the doctor asked, the slimy brown critters in a large cylindrical tube nearly jumping out of the tank as the man fished in with black tongs. Phlox pointed the new patient to the vacated biobed.

The Denobulan then looked over the man with burns around his face and eyes as T'Pol made her recommendation, sounding like the first officer. "I believe you need three teams, four if possible, during all shifts. Each group should be assigned a lead physician assistant based on who has the most knowledge and skill."

Dr. Phlox jerked his head in surprise. "That is exactly what I need."

"Skon will arrange that for you," she said. "I will be your lead physician's assistant during the alpha shift and your back-up as you rest."

The physician's lips curled ridiculously into an overextended smile. "Ambassador, I am relieved to have you here."

And then the man continued with his work as Skon and T'Pol attempted to provide some order to the chaos in Sickbay.

After merely three hours, the medical facility had started to regain some semblance of order. A system, one Dr. Phlox had wanted to introduce, but had no time to implement, had been established on getting those who needed only rest and minimal supervision back to their quarters quickly while enabling more time on those more critically wounded. Skon also ensured those who were bound for the morgue got their quickly to provide ample room for new patients. It was a grim task, and T'Pol knew he didn't relish it, but he knew the logic of what needed to be done.

As T'Pol assisted a young woman to the biobed to check her vital signs and Phlox looked over another more critical patient, she noticed Jonathan arrived.

Right away, everyone, even those who were injured, flinched as if responding to the chain of command. The chatter in the facility came to a standstill as crewmen sat up as straight as possible.

He must've sensed it to, because he smiled. "At ease everyone."

Much like when he was captain, he walked by and chatted with personnel and inquired about their medical condition. He looked each one in the eye, giving them his full attention and often touched their shoulder or arm as if to further relax them. For those who couldn't speak and were awake, he patted their hand and thanked them for their service, saying they'd be home soon. And for those who weren't awake, he merely stood by their bed for a few minutes and said a few words or held their hand.

It wasn't long until the humans relaxed and the noise of the medical facility picked up again.

After an hour, talking with everyone conscious, Jon casually made his way over to T'Pol.

"I expected worse," he whispered to his wife.

"You may have been right three hours ago." She nodded to Skon, who was busy reviewing his PADD and making notes. "He has helped immensely. Things seem to be running much more efficiently in a relatively short amount of time."

She saw her mate's mouth draw tight and through her bond she reminded him he no longer needed to be jealous.

"I wasn't thinking that exactly," he said. And when her eyes widened he squirmed under the gaze. "Okay, a little. I was mostly thinking we're lucky he came."

"Oh?"

"Sure. This." He spread his hand out to the well-run medical facility. "His help on the bridge." And then he whispered to her. "And from your mind, I understand he brought you to me despite _everything_."

"All true," she said.

He smirked and then walked over to Dr. Phlox who had just finished with a patient. She noted the two conversed about the dead and the injured. The doctor brought the admiral over to review PADD with more information about what he needed once they reached Talon Station.

Jonathan in return discussed getting those most critically injured back to Earth and arranging accommodations for those who needed additional care from Phlox or were less injured.

Afterward, T'Pol watched in Vulcan surprise as her husband then walked over to Skon. The two regarded each other and finally Archer gave him a tepid smile. T'Pol walked over to Dr. Phlox to get closer, hoping to catch not only what her husband was thinking, but also the interaction between the two men as she pretended to be busy.

"I appreciate what you've done here, Skon," Jon said.

"It was only logical. I could be of no use on the Bridge," Skon said.

Jon looked at his feet and spoke again. "Actually, you were very helpful on the Bridge." He took a deep breath. "Everything you have done here has been helpful and I'm lucky to have you aboard. I also know what you sacrificed to get here … to help T'Pol get here."

"That too was only logical," he answered. "She was determined to reject any assistance I offered."

Jon said, "You dumped all your fuel in an effort to reach us. It was a risky gamble. You could've died in space, too."

Skon's eyebrow peaked. "We have not always agreed on everything, Admiral. But we can concur that Ambassador T'Pol is quite remarkable. She asked me to fulfill her request and I was honor-bound to do so."

Jon scratched his head and then nodded. "You're right, we do agree on that. T'Pol is remarkable." She watched as he glanced over his shoulder as if noticing T'Pol's attention, and her face dove closer to a PADD in reaction before lifting her eyes to watch her mate turn back to Skon.

"Listen, I was hoping we could bury the hatchet," Jon said.

"I was unaware you had a hatchet," he said. "And if you have one, why would you want to bury it?"

Jon chuckled. "No, I mean, we should resolve our differences."

"Those sentiments are unnecessary, Admiral."

"No, I think they are. I'd like to thank you and … apologize."

"Vey well," Skon said. His hands folded in front of his waist and a more placid expression, if it were possible, overtook his entire face.

Archer furrowed his brow in confusion and then Skon spoke. "You said you would _like_ to thank me and apologize, so I was providing you the opportunity to do so."

Jon again looked back over his shoulder and T'Pol this time raised an eyebrow in slight amusement. After a long breath he looked back at Skon who appeared to be waiting.

"All right." Jon took a deep breath and let out a long sigh as Skon continued to wait. An uneasy smile made it across the admiral's face and he eventually said. "Thanks. And I'm sorry. I misjudged you."

"You did," Skon affirmed.

Jon winced and something about Skon's countenance seemed to relax even though his body continued to stand upright, with perfect posture, as his face remained the picture of non-emotion.

Then Skon said slowly, "But I believe the appropriate response is: apology accepted."

The two studied each other and then after several seconds, before Jon awkwardly nodded and then left Sickbay.

T'Pol strolled over to her aide and Skon watched the admiral head out the door.

"You allowed him to struggle to apologize to you," she said, quietly.

"Did I?" Skon asked, his eyebrows perched against his black bangs, his blue eyes wide with innocence.

"Yes," she responded.

"I gather apologizing is not something he is particularly skilled at. I wished to provide him further opportunity to hone that skill, as I understand apologizing is important to humans."

T'Pol's eyes twinkled. She knew first-hand Jonathan Archer was many things – proud and stubborn among them. Both of these traits, she decided, made it difficult for him to admit wrongdoing and make amends for the misdeed.

"That is true, Jonathan is not particularly skilled at apologies … I believe that is something the two of you have in common," she retorted.

He turned to her, amusement in his eyes. "Then it is fortunate Vulcans do not need such a skill."

"It is," she agreed, amusement in her eyes as well.

The two scanned the medical facility and the good work Skon had done. T'Pol then whispered to him.

"I do not believe I have thanked you either for everything you have done for me and for my bondmate."

"Thanks is not required. It was logical to take you here, logical to assist in battle, and logical to restore order to Sickbay."

"It is beyond logic. It is friendship."

He watched her and agreed. "Yes, ambassador, it is friendship."

She leaned in and spoke to him in Vulcan. "Shaya tonat, t'nash veh t'hai'lu." [Thank you, my friend.]

His eyebrows flattened. "Kwon-sum, T'Pol." [Always, T'Pol.]

* * *

When Shran reached his house, he saw Jhamel pick up a blaster and held it aloft until it seemed she sensed who was there. Immediately, she put it down and ran to the door hugging her husband as he entered.

Shran squeezed her tight as they touched antennae. Once they parted, he told her what she already knew.

"Jhamel, we need to go. Pack only the bare essentials."

Tallah ran into the room dressed in all black and hoisting her ice pick. She sneered. "Father, I would like to cut the antennae off the tarpig who took you. Tares!"

Shran tousled her hair. "Child, although your need to revenge is admirable, Tares is not to blame. She allowed me to live. And we owe her a debt of gratitude."

"A debt?" Tallah asked, huffing.

"We'll settle it with her later," Shran agreed.

Tallah placed her arms across her chest and stuck out her chin as if to consider the matter. Meanwhile, Jhamel grabbed a blue baby dressed in black leather. Shras cooed, trilling.

Jhamel asked, "Where will we be next? What should we take?"

Shran pointed to a few things that seemed trivial. "Clothing, Tallah's ice pick, Shras's nest—if we can fit it." The Andorian turned to his daughter. "Tallah, we practiced just this drill. Can you help your mother?"

The little girl stood at attention and gave the Imperial Guard salute, her hand hitting her chest firmly. "I will ensure our family is prepared, Father." She immediately set to work like a drill sergeant, pointing to family items and yelling out what was needed. Jhamel scurried to follow her daughter's instructions as Shran worked on packing weapons. Gral followed him to assist.

"Aren't you concerned about Martog?" Shran asked.

Gral said, "Tellar would never take Martog. When Tyr realizes I have abandoned his requested position, he will need to provide the senate a bill for them to argue about whether to imprison me." Gral showed his fangs in a gruesome smile. "They would debate it for at least three Earth years, before handing out a verdict. That verdict would need to be approved by Tyr and then handed back to our Azazi, interstellar police for my capture." He chuckled. "I figure I have at least six years."

Shran scoffed, "Bureaucrats!"

"Yes, aren't they wonderful?" Gral asked, rubbing his sinewy fingers together with greed. He sighed with appreciation. "As a pup I wanted to be a bureaucrat. Dreamed of it. Tirelessly arguing for years … but I was never as patient as they."

Gral watched Shran's antennae wilt and then almost recoil. The little pig grunted. "You mock me? _Your_ world is led by a queen and her military aide."

Shran furrowed his brow. "You may insult General Krag, but never the queen." He stopped his frantic packing. "She is the most beautiful, most graceful female to ever walk across the ice flows of Andoria." He smiled as if remembering meeting her and then whispered mostly to himself. "I one day hoped she would choose to mate with me, to give her another queen. When I was with the Imperial Guard, she singled me out several times."

A low clicking noise emitted from his mouth as if a coo and Gral frowned.

Gral narrowed his eyes. "Your queen mates with her people?"

Shran smiled. "Oh yes. Every two years, she chooses an Andorian thaan to sire her children and if the mating is successful, she eats her mate."

Gral sucked in air and recoiled.

Shran smiled. "You're gullible, pig." And then he stuffed another pair of leather pants into his duffle bag. "No, she only eats her mate if he died in the throes of passion."

Gral asked, weakly, "Does that happen often?"

"Often enough," Shran said, flashing his friend a smile. "What a way to go!"

The two continued until Tallah entered the room, reporting to her father. "We have gathered all essential items and enough food for several days." Then she huffed. "Mother indicated based on food we're taking she may not produce enough milk for Shras."

The child curled her lip and Shran stood, hoisting the duffel bag over his shoulder. "She doesn't need to worry. I can lactate if necessary. After all I am the father."

Gral again recoiled and started carrying bags to the shuttle.

* * *

During the day, Jon had contacted Starfleet at least three times, worked with Stiles and Gupta for a rendezvous and the Panama's engineering staff to fix what they could. And as the ship crept closer to Talon Station, he worked on guest accommodations for crewmen, ensuring needed medical supplies would reach Sickbay and there would be beds on the station for the wounded. Levy and T'Var assisted with nearly every aspect as Mayweather manned the captain's chair.

He'd contacted Arthur Westing, nephew of Captain Vega, to help arrange for Captain Vega's funeral and both decided they would celebrate her life on Talon Station along all the fallen crew. Arthur had assured that celebration would be exactly what his aunt would've wanted, complete with a party, alcohol, and funny stories about her.

Around 2300 hours, Archer left his Ready Room, telling a tired staff to allow the next shift to take over. As T'Var and Levy vanished in the turbolift, he smiled at Travis.

"Captain's chair suits you," he said.

Travis flashed a grin. "I don't know if I could ever give up flying." Then he paused, a twinkle in his eye. "Beisdes, didn't you pass me up about a year ago for the job?"

Archer's smile dropped. "The Andorian had more experience than you or Kelby. And that didn't necessarily seem like a goal for you. But I think it should be … maybe in a year or so."

Travis chuckled. "I'm not sure I can see me captaining anything bigger than a shuttle. Besides, flying is a lot more exciting."

Archer said, "I thought the same thing when I was about your age. But the allure of new alien worlds and new life forms …. Discovery and exploration are a lot more exciting than pulling an 'L' maneuver. And after the Romulan War, I hope we can get back to exploration. We've only explored a fraction of our universe."

"I'll give it some thought sir," Mayweather said.

Weary, the man pushed himself from the captain's chair and walked into the turbolift as the new shift crew came onto the Bridge. Jon debriefed the highest ranking officer, Briggs, and then went back to his cabin for some rest himself.

When he opened the door, he saw T'Pol meditating on the floor in front of a candle and relished the inner peace that washed over him. He let the experience sink into his bones and closed his eyes, wrapping it around him like a warm blanket.

"It has been a long day," T'Pol whispered.

She stood nearly in a single move, catlike, and the two hugged for many moments. When they parted, he watched her face.

"I hope both Skon and Phlox get some rest," Jon said.

"I do as well." She said, "The rotations created have given everyone some rest, but Dr. Phlox insists on caring for his neediest patients." The woman paused. "Skon indicated he would retire when T'Var was off-duty."

That caused Archer's eyebrows to raise and a smile to cross his face.

T'Pol said, "Touching my mind caused the burning to overtake him as well."

"T'Var. Huh. That certainly is a surprise," Archer commented, taking off his shoes and leaving them in the middle of the floor.

She looked at the shoes and he immediately moved them to the closet. As he did so, she said, "Not really. Vulcans are honor-bound to provide assistance to those who are in the throes of the fever." She paused. "If both are single it _can_ create mutual admiration."

"Yeah, _admiration_." At his whimsy, a tease on the tip of his tongue, he felt T'Pol's admonishment and let the comment go without being spoken. At the silence, he could tell she was pleased. And then a thought occurred to him. "You know, she'll be reassigned. I think current plans have her with Captain Gupta. He needs a communications officer of her skill."

T'Pol took his hand. "Jonathan, not all Vulcans who assist each other become a couple or marry. When I say admiration, it could also mean friendship."

"Friendship. That's where _we_ started," Jon said, smiling.

"Indeed it is."

The two kissed and when they broke apart, he spoke. "Remember when you said you could extinguish the embers, the traces that remain of Pon Farr?"

"Yes. I indicated the need was not great, it was controllable."

"What if we fan those embers instead?" he asked as his lips traipsed over the tip of her ear.

"To allow the fire to consume us?" she asked, rhetorically.

"Yeah," he whispered. "To share in our grief and let the embers control us."

She returned his question by placing her mouth on his and leading him to bed.

* * *

Skon walked up to the door of the communications officer. Emotion was always easy for him to control, but now he felt anxious. Straightening his spine, he depressed the chime of T'Var's door and waited with his hands behind his back.

T'Var answered, already in her Vulcan robes – ones that were less ceremonial and more casual. He gave her the Vulcan greeting and she did the same.

"Do you wish to enter?" she asked in Vulcan.

"If you are not previously engaged," he returned in their native language.

"No."

He entered and the two were silent. Although he knew it was an invasion of privacy, he studied her belongings with interest – the Vulcan lyre resting on her dresser, a fabric-bound book of Surak's teachings, and a picture of a young Vulcan with brown eyes.

"That is my brother, Srin," she said. "He is a scientist now in the Sulan province."

"Then he must be a geologist," Skon concluded.

"Yes," she confirmed.

After taking a cleansing breath, Skon turned to her. "I have not yet shared the mating fire with anyone other than my bondmate." He corrected himself. "My _deceased_ bondmate."

"I know. You told me only two days ago."

He nodded. "Yes, of course. It is difficult to recall much from the past few days."

"Then you may not remember I told you my betrothed – the one I was intended for – perished many years ago. You have not placed me in a precarious position."

Skon closed his eyes and tried to recall the conversation. Finally, he caught hold of a wisp of a memory. "You said you did not intend to bond with someone else because of your situation —your role at Starfleet."

She agreed and walked over to a bottle that held an orange liquid. Pouring it into a glass, she held it out for him. He took it and gave s shallow drink as she took some herself.

T'Var said, "When I was young, Ambassador T'Pol, then a science officer on Enterprise, lectured at Sevan Hall. She spoke about the wonders of exploration. I remember how the Vulcans around me reacted, with disdain and disapproval, commenting that science is calculated rather than wondrous." She walked to her portal and looked out at the stars. "There is science behind what we see, but I understood her comment – we can appreciate the aesthetics of it even as we study the science." The Vulcan woman turned to him and sipped her glass. "It is not sentimental or emotional to appreciate beauty or relish the science. It is, in fact, logical."

"Quite so," Skon said. "I may not have understood that until I met Ambassador T'Pol myself." And then he paused and watched the woman across from him. "We have touched minds, but I do not recall you sharing that particular story with me."

"As you stated, your mind was chaos for the past few days."

"True."

She sat on her bed and motioned for him to do the same. Carefully, he did so and watched her for a few minutes.

"You are wondering if our minds have shared our katras – if we have become one?"

He said without emotion, but felt somewhat disappointed, "I do not hear your thoughts echo in my mind. I attempted to reach out for you today."

"Nor do I hear yours."

"It seems fortunate for you – that you will continue to carry on your role as you wanted."

"Fortunate? I am not certain, but it exists that we are not paired."

Skon lifted two fingers in the air, which she took quickly. "I thank you for your assistance," he said.

"Thanks are not in order. We are Vulcans. It is our way."

"It is, but …." His voice trailed off as his fingers left hers. "I believe another Vulcan female would not be as understanding."

Skon felt a tinge of green reach his face as he thought back to his attempt to kiss her – something that T'Pol showed him how to do. In the mating fever, he was determined to attempt it as if it would quench his need. Other Vulcan women would not understand the touching of lips or the significance. T'Var although just as unpracticed as he, attempted it without question.

Reflecting now, Skon had to admit the kiss was strange and intriguing. Although he preferred the touching of fingers, the sensation of merging mouths had merit.

"Because we have both been with the humans, I know you will understand. What occurred between us was not without emotion." Her brown eyes blinked at him – her face the epitome of logic and reason. "It was not without … pleasure."

He quipped an eyebrow at her. "Yes."

"Does the fire still consume you?"

"Not entirely. It is manageable."

There was silence between the two. T'Var put down her glass and turned to Skon. "You must not feel shame at what occurred between us. It is Vulcan and beyond your control."

"Shame?"

T'Var took a sip of her drink and then answered him. "Because we have shared minds and this bed, I know it is an emotion you wrestled with during the fever."

Earnestly he answered her. "I no longer feel shame at what occurred."

"Then -?"

Skon set down his drink on her nightstand. "Because we have both been around humans I know you will understand. Our lives are devoted to the eradication of emotion: we meditate, practice the way of Surak, and pride ourselves in destroying emotion. During Kolinahr we distance what takes us from logic. I find now emotion confusing."

She continued to watch and he turned to her. "Although it is confusing, I admit the emotion I believe I feel is … disappointment."

"Disappointment?"

"Disappointment that we have shared so much, and that I recall so little. Disappointment that we part ways now."

"I understand." She put down her glass as well. "I believe I feel the same. It has been some time since I have seen another Vulcan, especially one as aesthetically pleasing and interesting as you."

She offered her two fingers this time, which he took quickly.

"What happens to you now?" she asked.

"I am to continue our mission to convince our council to pay reparations to Coridan. And you?"

"Admiral Archer indicated I am to be reassigned to Captain Gupta's ship."

"And re-enter the war?"

"Most likely."

"And you wish this?" he asked.

"It is only logical. We must fight the Romulans, lest they conquer all our worlds and enslave us." She watched him. "Your role and mine, they are not so dissimilar."

He agreed, "True, although I believe mine puts me in less peril." The two were silent for nearly a full minute before Skon spoke again. "I should allow you to rest and recuperate." When he stood, she did so as well. Slowly, the Vulcan walked to the door, his feet heavier than usual.

"Thank you for your assistance. Again," he said.

When he turned to give her the final Vulcan greeting, he felt her lips on his. Though they were both clumsy at the gesture, but he found it comforting. He understood the meaning behind it, a reminder of what they had shared for the past few days – their tie to each other.

His finger traced a lock of hair and he looked down before whispering in her ear. "Contact me often to let me know you are safe."

"I will," she agreed. "I hope your argument sways with Minister T'Pau."

"I do as well," he said.

The two watched each other until T'Var raised her hand in the Vulcan greeting, a symbol of their culture and heritage. He offered the same.

"Live long and prosper, Skon," she said.

"Peace and long life, T'Var," he said back. "I hope we will see each other again."

"As do I."

Without anything more between them, he turned to walk back to his cabin. On the way there, he thought several times of returning to her with the excuse Pon Farr called to him. And yet he knew the sentiment, disappointment that they could not continue and that he may not see her again, was not Vulcan. Silently, he decided he needed to meditate and reflect on that emotion.

* * *

Once the family was loaded in the car, Gral and Shran discussed where they could leave his family. Ruling out any hotel accommodating aliens as the first place Krag would look, the men both decided on one that catered to humans in a place far outside the boundaries of California. Deciding on a place so sunny the Andorians would assume he'd never visit, they headed for Jamaica. Immediately, Tallah groaned at hearing they'd have to be warm for many days.

"At least they serve fresh fish," Shran explained.

When the vehicle finally landed, it was outside a small motel that seemed to cater less to tourists and more to those who were from the island. Shran walked up to establishment with sunglasses on already complaining his black catsuit was too hot. Jhamel, Tallah, and Shras waited in the car.

Gral followed and immediately tried to peer over the counter at the dark-skinned man who was there. He seemed in better spirits, comparing the humidity and lush greens to Risa.

"I've never cared for it," he said.

Shran saw the bell on the counter and decided to ring it repeatedly, his palm smashing against the knob. A dark-skinned man in his forties finally came up, annoyed, until he saw them. Taking a step back, he waited for one of them to speak.

"We speak English," Gral offered.

The man nodded and then asked, "Can I help you?"

"We would like a room," Shran said.

"You know, we don't really cater to aliens and –"

"We know," Gral agreed.

The man furrowed his brow and then looked for something on his PADD. While he did so, he explained some of the rules like checkout times and where the ice machines were. Shran was about to cut him off, but found the ice machine discussion fascinating.

"Ice _machines_?" Shran asked, delighted.

"Yes. You know, like in the freezer. They make ice cubes."

"We can sit in these ice machines?" Shran asked.

"No. It's just like a big freezer. You can use it for drinks."

"Yes, like a freezer. Excellent," Shran said, smiling down at Gral. The Andorian recalled enjoying sitting in front of it for hours with his family – an activity that frequently led to a new freezer.

Gral snorted at the idea as Shran beamed. "We obviously chose the right hotel." And then suspicion crawled across his face as he narrowed his eyes. "How much do these machines cost?"

"Ice is free."

"Your ice is free?" he asked to clarify.

"Yeah," the man said.

Turning to Gral, Shran explained, "An Andorian hotel would charge by the bucket." He nodded to the man behind the counter. "How much ice can I take? Legally that is?"

"Uh, as much as you want."

Shran ran outside to alert his family. "This facility has free ice!"

The family cheered and he ran back in the establishment wearing the same grin. "Then we shall definitely like a room."

"Okay, just one or …?"

"One very large one," Shran replied.

"We have a suite with a king bed and –"

Shran grinned. "I can understand the confusion. Although I appear regal, I'm not a king. Your normal beds would do. Dignitary if you have them."

"A queen?" the human asked, perplexed.

"As I explained, I am not royalty." He then said under his breath to Gral, "Humans aren't very bright, are they?"

Gral shrugged.

"Okay, we have a suite with uhm … two normal beds. Would that work?"

"Yes."

"For how many nights?" the man asked.

"Well, I would be staying days as well. Do I pay extra for that?"

The human was confused again and then finally figured out the response. "Uhm, no. We charge by the night, but the hotel room would be open to you during the day as well."

"I'm not sure I understand why you charge for the nights only. It seems poor business practice."

The man shook his head. "It's just the way it is."

"Well, very well, but if I were you I'd write to your hotel commission." Looking at Gral, he then tried to calculate what they would need. "I'd like a room for at least two months, maybe more."

"Two months?"

"We would be happy to pay a considerable amount in advance," Shran said. Holding a number of credits, he plopped them down on the counter.

The man counted them and said, "You realize this is about three thousand credits."

"Do you need more?" he asked.

"I'll have to get the manager," the man said.

Shran sighed, his antennae sagging. "Listen, why don't I throw in another three thousand?"

The man didn't look convinced and then Shran said, "My family – my two children and wife – need lodging and … well … you have free ice. Can't you see fit to help us?"

The man seemed torn and then said again. "We can't cater to aliens."

"We don't expect special treatment."

"All right," the man said. Eventually he produced a passcode. "What's your name?"

Shran's antennae whirled and he said loudly, "Archer."

"Is that your first or last name?" he asked, suspicious.

"It's the only one I have."

"And what's your address, Archer?"

Digging into the recesses of his brain, he came up with the address that the Pink Skin and Vulcan shared. Quickly blurting it out, he then turned to Gral who seemed satisfied with the transaction. The two hastily headed back to the shuttle.

Winding their way through the shuttleport, they eventually found their room. Immediately on entering, Tallah turned the thermostat to its lowest possible setting and Shran grabbed the trashcan to bring back ice for the bathtub so they could sit in it, just like at home.

Gral looked out the window at a stunning view – the ocean rolling in and out. Jhamel blindly went over to the pig-man and sat down. "Will we be safe here?"

"Shran and I will ensure it," he said. "We'll speak to Simon tonight and he'll be back to you by tomorrow morning."

Gral then lowered his voice so Tallah couldn't hear. "You shouldn't let anyone enter … just to be certain. Blue thinks Krag will find out soon and come for you."

"I know."

"You must stay inside as much as possible," Gral said. "I'm certain few Andorians reach this island."

"Yes, I know." She paused. "Martog will be okay?"

"It will take years for my people to act, if they decide to. By then, all will be settled."

"You sound certain," she said.

"I have to be. Your lives are counting on it," Gral countered.

Jhamel said, "Shran is lucky to have a friend such as you. Thank you for helping to save his life and ours."

"You would do the same for me and my family," Gral said.

The pig from Tellar Prime wrapped a bony hand around Jhamel's and the two were silent as they waited for Shran to return.

A/N: Awww, sorry, Skon! Sometimes it sucks to be a Vulcan. Next chapter – Talon Station and Shran's brother as well as a surprise of a new and deadly traitor (that begins to put everything together). And Shran and Gral talk with Ambassador Simon.


	52. Chapter 52

AN: Krag with a K. Darn you, spell check!

Also, please rest assured, I _will_ finish this! I really appreciate the nice sentiments and comments encouraging me to finish, but no one has to worry about this being completed. Sorry it took so long. I've been struggling with this chapter well … since the last one.

Lastly, this is a weird chapter. I tried to rewrite it multiple times, but think this is probably the way it has to be written.

[-]

Jonathan Archer awoke to see a starbase drift into view. The base was ice-blue, spinning slowly, dancing and sparkling, lights flickering, as if thousands of people were up enjoying all that the station had to offer.

Large spires rose up along many of the hubs activity – decoration, something completely unnecessary. And yet the twisting columns themselves spoke to the culture of Andoria: awe-inspiring in its beauty.

Ships, a variety of sizes and colors – large like the red Vulcan ring ships and small brown Tellarite scout ships – were docked and zipping around, swarming like bees around a beehive. This station wasn't a Vulcan monolith brimming with logical efficiency, a stocky Tellarite base that looked similar to a mud hut, or a small Earth outpost shining with a pioneering spirit. This station, Talon Station, was brimming with the beauty, energy and life of Andoria: illogical, technologically advanced, and happy with its status in the universe.

A giant, robotic arm extended from the station as the Panama inched forward to begin docking procedures. It was routine, Jon knew, or he would've been up on the bridge to oversee the operation. Jon awed at the dance between the vessel and the station and gave a silent nod to the pilot who managed to dock without as much as rippling the water in his glass next to him.

A beep quietly chimed at his console near the bed and he answered, his voice still husky with sleep.

"Archer," Jon said.

"Sir, we've just docked at Talon Station," he said.

"Thanks for notifying me. Archer out." He looked over at his sleeping wife. Immediately, she stretched in bed and slowly opened her eyes.

"I've never known you to sleep more than six hours," he teased.

"I am catching up on rest." At the grin that threatened to overtake his face, she said, "It is not uncommon for Vulcans to sleep longer after Pon Farr. Rest is more necessary after Vulcans expend more energy during that time."

He chuckled as she pushed herself up until sitting. She asked, "Are you prepared for your meeting with Sav?"

Archer shrugged. "Just like my meetings with Shran, I really have no idea what to expect."

"Shran often brought the unexpected," she agreed.

The two were silent as they watched the starbase before them. After a few minutes, she spoke up.

"I have asked Skon to start making arrangements so that we may return to Vulcan. However, I wanted to stay for as many of the funerals as possible."

Archer nodded as if already aware of her thoughts. "I'm glad you're staying for Mel's funeral."

A thin eyebrow arched and she tilted her head. "Her nephew mentioned that it is more a party than a funeral."

Archer smiled sadly. "Many cultures on Earth want the living to have fun, and remember them through laughter and stories. I wish we'd done something like that for Trip. But his death …."

She closed her eyes as if to understand the feelings in the bond and finally spoke. "Yes, the more tragic the events, the less likely there is to feel mirth." She opened her eyes. "Captain Vega did not die tragically?"

"She died heroically. It was tragic, but I think this war helps put it into perspective. Trip's was … unexpected."

"Like Admiral Forrest's."

"Yes," he agreed. And then he settled back down with his hand behind his head. "You know, maybe when we get back to Earth we can have a party for Trip." He produced a sad smile. "Maybe we can have it in Miami."

"His parents would, no doubt, appreciate such a sentiment."

He agreed and took her hand in his. She followed his gaze out the window.

"You think Talon Station is aesthetically pleasing," she commented.

"I do." He then turned his gaze to her. "I've never seen an Andorian station quite like this one."

T'Pol nodded. "They have built others that look like this one, but from what I understand the Andorians created this and so close to Vulcan as a reminder of their presence in the universe."

Archer chuckled. "Kinda hard to forget them."

"Yes. Andorians are not easy to forget."

"Why didn't Vulcan ever attack this station?" Jon asked.

"We only asserted ourselves over territory we believed we owned," she said.

He furrowed his brow at her, as if he knew better and she ignored it. "I remember when I met the Andorians." He paused. "I also recall you being unhappy to see them."

"Unhappy? That is an emotion." Before he could counter that he knew that was the emotion, she amended her statement. "Possibly the same emotion you felt when you found out I was assigned to Enterprise."

A laugh erupted from his belly and he nodded his defeat. "Touche. Although to be fair, I changed my opinion quickly." His eyes twinkled at her. "I guess a lot has changed since then."

T'Pol's eyes shone. "Yes, I would say so."

Before he could seem too pleased with himself, his wife spoke again. "Though Commander Sav seems like an ally, I am … relieved Travis is joining you tomorrow."

"Me, too." His grin wilted for a moment. "Although, Travis seemed eager to come with me. Very eager." He paused. "I'm glad he only has a couple of days of leave. Seems like less opportunity for him to get into trouble."

"Your request for the Andorians to contact you if crewmen become rowdy was perceptive," T'Pol said.

"Not perceptive," Jon said. "Let's just say I've been twenty seven before." And then he sighed. "But God knows these people deserve a little rest and relaxation."

[-]

Archer waited at the airlock, along with crewmen who had been released to Talon Station, including T'Var and Levy. Jon stood at the door making small talk as the final procedures were completed. Nudging a few buttons in his communicator, he started the translation program that would ensure he and the Andorians would be able to understand each other. As he typed in the commands, he thought about Hoshi Reed who had devised the program as well as making it available on all handhelds.

An Andorian, only visible through the portal of the airlock, waited on the other side. An engineer with a crew cut and thick neck punched in a few commands in then thumbed the comm.

"Talon Station, we've got an air seal," he said in an Australian accent.

An Andorian voice, buzzed and then translated.

"We also have a seal," an Andorian voice said over the speakers. "I assume you may open the door unless you've made an error."

The Australian rolled his eyes as the door slid open and Archer took a deep breath, too. A sudden bust of cold air rushed in, a temperature much lower than the comfortable 22 degrees Celsius in which most Earth ships operated. The human crewmen lined up and shuffled through as the thick-necked crewmen holding a PADD checked off names on a PADD – those assigned to specific duty or allowed leave.

Several Andorians waited on the other side, all with black leather outfits and the insignia of their homeland, gawking at the Terrans and then talking to each other almost whispering. The communicator in Jon's hand buzzed with only occasionally phrases. Most of them, he noted, were comments about how hairy the Earth people were or what pink skin some of them had.

Travis frowned at them and then leaned over to his commander. "I don't think they like us, Admiral."

Archer watched and responded, "Actually, the strange this is — I think they do."

Mayweather chuckled.

As everyone headed off in different directions, Mayweather and Archer continued down one hallway after another, moving from the extended arm of the space station into the facility itself. The minute they crossed the threshold, they were greeted by something that resembled techno music and low-lighting. Firearms, ranging from blasters to percussion grenades, lined many of the carts as Andorian men and woman attempted to get the admiral and Mayweather to view their wares. A few sold what Archer guessed were drugs – small red gelatin pills that promised outrageous beauty – as well as food-like substances that were promised to bring amazing hallucinations.

Clothing, mostly black leather, was sold as well as small animals, including tiny white and brown puffballs that cooed quietly as they were stroked. The seller promised these small creatures would make any meeting tranquil.

Food carts served various types of raw animals and ale. Most of the food looked like what Archer guessed would be seafood, squirming and wriggling with tentacles occasionally slithering out of the aquarium.

Scantily clad Orion women danced near many of the kiosks as if to allure men. It worked, already a few crewmen were queued up. Archer noticed in mild interest, less affected by the pheromones thanks to his psychic connection to T'Pol, as he tugged Mayweather's arm to help him dodge the green women's scent.

An Andorian woman, much taller than both humans and dressed in a black binkini sauntered up. Her voice rumbled low, at least an octave lower than Mayweather's.

"You looking for a good time?" she asked.

Mayweather leaned into Archer and said, "These must be the zhen I've heard so much about."

Archer answered to the Andorian, "Uhm, we have some place to be."

"I am zha, yes," she said to Mayweather and then the woman's antennae whirled. Leering down at Archer and Mayweather, she grinned. "I have wanted to experience Terrans for some time."

Archer's mouth fell open and he coughed into his hand while shaking his head to walk on. Mayweather frowned as he walked behind his commanding officer.

Finally making it to one of the many elevator banks, Archer searched for a group of symbols – patterns that looked almost like a cross between Egyptian hieroglyphics and Arabic – until he found one that made his hand-held buzz.

"Femut," Archer said and punched the button next to it.

"I guess you're going down the rabbit hole," Mayweather said.

Archer smirked as suddenly the elevator lurched and sent them hurtling to the floor. Eventually both men got to their feet as they wound down one tunnel into another. The plastic tubing allowed them to see everything, dizzyingly. Shops, restaurants, bars, and more fled by at astonishing speeds. And just as suddenly, the elevator came to an abrupt halt sending both humans sprawling again.

"This is worse than the rides at Coney Island," Mayweather said getting to his feet again. "I feel sick."

"I suppose it helps to have the Andorian sense of balance with those antennae," Archer said getting up a little more slowly. He closed his eyes attempting to let equilibrium restore itself.

When the admiral's eyes opened and focused, he could see the only door on that level – one with a big sign that flickered above them larger than the screen in New York City's Times Square. The sign had large blue symbols, words, which scrambled suddenly to form an animal that looked something like a tiger with two giant horns.

Jon held his PADD aloft and it buzzed again. "This is it."

"Kind of weird," Mayweather said. "Most levels have a few other things."

Archer started to walk to the door, halting when he heard a question.

"You sure you're going to be okay?" Mayweather asked.

"Sav wanted to see me _alone_."

"You told T'Pol I was coming with you, didn't you?" Mayweather scolded.

"Well, she's a wife. She worries."

"She's a Vulcan."

Archer admitted, "She worries in a very Vulcan way."

"You carrying a phase pistol?" Mayweather asked.

"It's against regulations." Although Jon didn't think it made sense now, knowing that so many black market weapons were sold in the station. And then smiled a little more broadly. "You should go and enjoy yourself."

Travis said, "I can wait here for you."

"I'll be okay."

When Mayweather didn't move, the admiral spoke up. "I'll tell you everything that happened tonight at Mel's wake."

Travis finally agreed. "You comm me if anything happens."

Archer waved his device as if to show it would always be by his side. Travis took a deep breath and then begrudgingly entered the elevator again and disappeared. When Archer turned around, instead of seeing a door, he saw a tall, fat Andorian, squished into black leather, blocking the entrance.

The Andorian took out his blade and gnashed his teeth.

"I've been asked to meet Commander Sav," Archer said as his PADD buzzed and hummed. "I'm Archer."

The Andorian's voice squeaked and the communicator translated into a high-pitch voice almost sounding feminine.

"Wait here," the giant said before vanishing behind the door.

Archer thought about opening it, but decided to do what was asked. Pulling up a book he'd been wanting to read, he started to look at his device again when he heard the same voice before.

"Come with me," the high-pitched voice said.

Before Jon could agree, he felt himself being pulled inside.

Music that sounded like fingers against a chalkboard with a base thumping every second filled the room and the human gritted his teeth as he walked inside. The bar was huge, taking up the entirety of a deck. Andorian men and women danced on tables, barely wearing any clothes, along with Orion women. Neon looking concoctions filled various drinks, changing colors along with the music. Off to the side, Jon could see a man smoking something like a hookah, looking a little like the caterpillar in Alice and Wonderland.

Patrons of the bar viewed the sights, drank, and talked. A few vendors, providing what looked like illegal substances that would "enhance the libido," offered Jon a few items as the fat Andorian continued to push him forward.

"Come with me," the high-pitched voice said again.

Jon was about to tell the large Andorian behind him to stop pushing when he went through another door. The room he entered was much smaller. Immediately he saw the man he'd met from the view screen claiming to be Shran's brother. Sav stood, separating from a crowd of people. The earring in his ear flashed different colors, and the Andorian reached over and clapped his arms in what Jon remembered was the Andorian greeting. He did the same before he was ushered to sit at the only table in the room.

A few Orion women, Andorians, and a creature that reminded Jon of a cross between a dog and pig were sitting at the table all to admire Sav. The Andorian shooed one of the taller Andorian women away, her red eyes batting sadly, and patted the chair.

"Pink Skin, have a seat," he said.

Jon gave an uncomfortable smile and then sat in the chair proffered as ale was served in front of him, sloshing over the goblet's sides. An Orion woman hung behind his shoulder, her body pressing into his, and an Andorian man shorter than Shran showed up at his elbow.

"I should start by saying thank you," Jon said.

Sav nodded. "You should."

Jon's face fell and then he coughed. "Very well. Thank you. We were in a tight spot, and your vessel coming when it did saved nearly one hundred and fifty crewmen."

Sav grinned and then slapped him on the back. "We will get to your debt later."

Jon was about to inquire what the debt was when another Andorian man next to him sniffed the air, his antennae appearing to do the same. Archer turned to him with irritation and the Andorian frowned.

"He's covered in the scent of _Vulcans_," he informed Sav.

"Probably because I'm married to one," Jon replied. "And as I recall, you have a truce with them so we can fight the Romulans _together_."

Archer could tell that didn't sit well with the people surrounding Sav, but Shran's brother held up a gloved fist. "The Pink Skin is right. We may've been at war with them for hundreds of years, but apparently we're all friends now."

The aliens at the table laughed and Archer furrowed his brow.

Sav said, "Don't make your skin go pinker. We have an uneasy peace with the Vulcans now, but it's peace all the same. Although my people are unsure whether their newest minister, T'Pau, will let the peace between us linger. She is young and may have a taste for war."

The aliens surrounding Sav laughed at his joke and Archer eyed the man sitting next to him, still sitting too close and watching every move he made.

Archer scoffed. "She may be young, but I can assure you she is not a proponent of war."

Sav's antennae reared in surprise. "You've met her?"

"I have."

"Who don't you know in this universe, Pink Skin?"

The aliens at the table laughed again and Archer studied them before turning to Sav.

"You have quite the entourage," Archer said.

Sav explained, "Andorians enjoy the company of friends." Gesturing to them with his palm, his antennae following, Sav bellowed, "_These_ are my friends." He pointed at the man who sniffed him. "His name is Thiel, and he is Bishee."

Archer turned again and noticed his skin was paler than Sav's or most of the other Andorians at the table. Sav explained. "I am Thallassan."

"Regions of Andor?" Archer asked.

"Close enough." Sav smirked. "My friends were very interested to meet you, Pink Skin."

"Why me particularly?"

Sav chuckled, "You have quite a reputation. Thy'lek said you were the only pink skin he'd ever met who could swallow goblets of Andorian ale, resist the temptation of an Orion female, out-logic a Vulcan, and out-argue a Tellarite." The Andorian's antennae withered slightly. "But I have to admit, I am a little disappointed."

Archer scoffed as the Andorians and Orions at the table chortled at his expense.

Sav continued, "You are much hairier than I expected. Older. Shorter."

"Nobody's perfect," Archer quipped.

The people at the table laughed again and Sav leaned back in his seat. Archer waited, feeling the eyes of everyone on him.

"We should drink. To good health," Sav said.

Archer sipped his ale and noticed frowns. Sighing, he decided to down the last bit as he knew an Andorians would. The action met with cheers as he felt the affects already enter his bloodstream, his cheeks turning pink.

"Now _that_ is the Pink Skin I have heard so much about," Sav said.

Archer tried to smile, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. Another ale appeared before him and just as the Andorian male beside him was about to speak, Archer turned to Sav.

"You asked me to meet you here to talk, not to drink."

"Pink skins have no patience," the Andorian huffed. "We have family business."

He said a few words which the translator didn't catch and everyone at the table left as well as the caterwaul, the music blaring overhead, stopped. A light hum began and when Jon furrowed his brow, Sav explained, "Jamming device."

Sav reached for the ring around his antennae and punched a few buttons. It turned into a something that resembled a communications device, with a hologram rotating above it. In the hologram were images of another Andorian male and two females.

"These are my lifemates," he said. "They were chosen for me by my clan when I was of age. It is the Andorian way, one Thy'lek will never become a part of."

Archer asked, "Why not?"

Sav said, "Thy'lek entered the Vulcan war after our littermate was killed in an attack by them – our littermate's name was Ty'ran. As the oldest, Thy'lek was the one who would avenge our family." His antennae drooped. "He entered the military and distinguished himself, so was chosen to serve in the Imperial Guard. And now because he has been a thief, he is ostracized and his duties of protecting our family and clan fall to me. I am the second eldest."

Archer's waited, listening.

"Although Thy'lek would never tell me, I believe he was ordered to disgrace – to become a jewel thief. That disgrace has tarnished the name Shran."

"You are angry with your brother?"

Sav slipped the ring around his ear again. "For many reasons."

"You're right, from what I understand, Shran was asked to pretend to be a gem thief to help-"

"Yes, my _government_," Sav said. "I am mostly angry with them, Pink Skin."

Before Jon could say anything the Andorian continued. "Andoria is on the verge of civil war. There is mistrust of our leaders. Peaceful protests have recently turned violent. As of two days ago, there was an uprising on the coast of Trul, and General Krag fired on civilians."

"I hadn't heard," Jon said, sitting straighter in his seat. "I thought the queen's word was final, part of your religion to accept her word as divine law. To rise up against her would be blasphemy."

"Yes. All true. But hundreds have been killed in her name and my people are restless. To put an end to this, I believe blasphemous we will be."

"And treasonous?" Archer asked.

"I am not speaking of myself." Sav's antennae drooped, "It is not a matter for treason or blasphemy. What I say truth. Yes, _I_ will raise my blade to defend her, but there are those who are displeased with her. And they are growing in number. I hear that we will have another uprising in Tulan next week. No doubt Krag will fire on them as well."

"You believe civil war has already begun."

"I do not believe; I know. Many of our cities have instituted curfews and our females have been asked not to roam the streets or hold firearms, for fear they will rebel."

"I'm human. What happens on Andoria-?"

"Our queen will be overthrown because of _Krag_."

"Who will lead in her absence?" Jon asked.

"I believe Krag himself."

Archer furrowed his brow. "There hasn't been a male lead Andorian since the Great Thaw –"

"I know the history of my own people, Pink Skin!"

With that, Sav took out his blade as Archer started to stand up. Instead, the Andorian cut into his own thumb, blood spilling out to reveal a small metal device. The Andorian explained it was the best way to hide information, even evading bio scans should they be given. Digging into his skin, something that made Archer wince, Sav retrieved a metal disc and placed it on the table in a puddle of his own blood.

Sav said, "My family is in danger. And as the second eldest, I am here to protect our family before I am forced to avenge them. My home world is in grave danger and so is our queen."

"If you're asking for my help—"

"I have evidence that General Krag isn't what he seems," Sav said.

"The allies have relied on him without hesitation."

"And yet he has not shared our political situation with any of the leaders, including yours."

"No," Jon admitted. This gave the admiral pause.

"I have evidence here," Sav whispered nodding to the device, "that he is … Orion."

Archer's mouth fell open and he shook his head. The accusation as ludicrous as it first sounded started to make sense. The facts were coming together. The first delegate sent to Earth to represent Andoria turned out to be Orion. Krag had personally sent Shran to get the dilithium crystals, where he was deemed a gem thief. Key allied positions, including Columbia's destruction, were known only at the highest levels of command.

The more he thought about the coincidences that ended in defeat for the council and the allies, the more he realized that Krag was involved in every one of those decisions and every communication. Personally.

Sav watched and then smiled sardonically. "You believe me, don't you?" The Andorian grabbed Jon's hand and forced the device in his hand, staining his skin blue.

Jon couldn't help but look at the device. "I'm not certain what to believe."

"I have irrefutable evidence."

"Irrefutable?"

"Yes. Bio scans and more." Sav leaned back in his chair and brought ale to his lips. "Pink Skin, ever since my littermate was disgraced, our family disgraced, I have paid people to keep their antennae on Krag. I knew he was behind Thy'lek's trouble."

"You mean you paid men to spy."

Sav's antennae whirled at the accusation. "Call it what you will, but they have given me proof that Krag is against us. That he has lied to the queen. That he has given away key positions of the allied fleet." The Andorian licked his blue lips. "The evidence involves you; it suggests Krag sent the Arali to find the dillithium crystals aboard Enterprise."

"The Arali killed a senior officer," Jon said. "Commander Tucker."

"It doesn't end there, Pink Skin. Krag provided information about Columbia and the Excelsior."

Jon's face reddened and Sav smiled, saying, "You see, Pink Skin, you are already involved."

Before the admiral could speak Sav said, "Krag now plans to kill my littermate."

"Why?"

"He claims it is for telling the allies of our plans with the dilithium crystals, but … he is planning on using Thy'lek as a scapegoat."

Looking at his hand and considering all the information given, Archer asked, "What do you want me to do?"

Sav said, "Repay the debt you owe me."

"I can bring the evidence to the council, but-"

"If you do, our entire way of life will be turned upside down – civil war, rising up against our queen, maybe even old clan-feuds resurfacing."

"What do you suggest?" Archer asked, skeptically.

Sav smiled. "You must take the evidence to the queen herself."

Archer scowled. "What?"

"You must deliver this to the queen herself."

Archer drank more of his ale. "Why not you?"

"Because I am the littermate to Thy'lek. You are the arat to Thy'lek's children – you may speak on his family's behalf without disgrace tarnishing your reputation. You are the Pink Skin."

Archer recalled the birthing songs, which seemed to go on for hours, as well as the birthing chair with nest, Phlox's favorite mating stories, and many cups of coffee to try to stay awake. Nodding, confusion riddled his features.

"And why will she listen to _me_?"

"You are the arat. You are the only human who defeated an Andorian in combat, brought Vulcan hypocrisy to an end, led fellow aliens into war, and you can drink Andorian ale in one gulp." Sav smiled, his teeth looking a deep shade of blue like his tongue. "Although you are an off-worlder, you have a good reputation among my people. A good reputation is hard to earn, especially as an off-worlder."

Jon thought about the consequences, how he would need to plan a trip to Andoria right away. As if to further sway him, Sav spoke again.

"You owe me, Pink Skin." His antennae pointed to the blood-smeared device in Archer's hand. "And you owe the officers you served with in Starfleet as well as Thy'lek."

Jon felt his face redden again. If Krag was to blame for what happened to Trip and Erika, possibly Mel, as well as killing many council members – almost murdering Gral, Shran, and T'Pol – he would kill Krag himself. The rage he felt couldn't be calmed by his bondmate, and he swallowed deeply as he realized for all the pain and suffering caused, he might be able to kill Krag with his bare hands.

"You owe me your life and the life of your Vulcan wife's," Sav said. "It wasn't the Andorians who saved you. It was _me_. I have ceased receiving orders from Krag for sometime and have been acting on my own authority." The Andorian gave a grin.

"How did you gain clearance for us to dock here?" Archer asked.

"Through my channels." Sav raised his eyebrows and scratched his white hair. "One of my lifemates still has access to military channels. She risked her life to get you here."

Archer considered the information.

"Review what I gave you." Sav stood. "I have already booked passage for you tomorrow aboard a cargo vessel. I can ensure you reach Andoria safely. From there … you are on your own."

Archer also stood. "You aren't concerned about anyone at the bar today? They probably know what we're discussing."

Sav laughed. "They believe we are talking about my littermate. That is all. I have kept Krag's secret safe, for fear it would kill whomever had it."

"You kept it even your family?"

"Them especially."

Archer said, "My bondmate already knows our discussion."

He scowled. "I heard the Vulcans had started engaging in mind tricks again. But my understanding is that your _Vulcan_ is also an arat. If my littermate trusted her, I … have no choice but to do so as well."

Archer stood and Sav grabbed his arm. "Even if you are not swayed by your debt to me, Andorian civil war, war with the Romulans, or even what happened to your fellow humans and council members, consider what will happen to Thy'lek and his family. Thy'lek will be killed. His wife, an Aenar, may be tortured. His children will also be poked and prodded by doctors who see them as oddities, scientific anomalies, of how Andorians and Aenar mate. His family will never feel the ice flow beneath their feet or the chill of a cool north wind on their faces. They will never meet lifemates from Andoria, matched to our ancient clans." Sav pointed his antennae at Archer. "If you are the Pink Skin I believe you to be, you will never let that happen to Thy'lek's family. You and my littermate are friends. And human as you may be, I believe that means something to you."

"And if I were to say yes, how do I see the queen?" Jon asked.

"I already explained, you are the Pink Skin. You can merely request it." Sav smiled.

Archer narrowed his eyes.

Sav continued, "She knows who you are. She will see you."

Jon nodded. "I'll review the information."

"You'll do it!" Sav's antennae whirled in excitement. "If you see Krag, you must make it clear you are only seeing the queen because you are the arat."

"I will."

Sav punched a few codes. Immediately, the aliens he saw before streamed back in. Archer immediately placed the metal device covered with blood in the chest pocket on the left-hand side.

"Let's drink to the Pink Skin," Sav cheered.

Everyone cheered and an Orion slid onto his arm. Archer gave a tepid smile, but continued the act, finishing his drink and setting an empty goblet on the table.

Sav smiled, his antennae twisting as the grin widened. With that, and the knowledge that Archer had a deadly secret in his pocket, he got up to leave. The giant Andorian who greeted him as he entered appeared again, as if from nowhere, and then grabbed his Stafleet uniform's collar and walked through the bar again. The techno music had gotten louder and lights flickered on and off with the sound.

When they got to the door, the Andorian squeaked to him, "You've got blood on your hand, human."

Archer's fist clamped. "So I have."

Without stopping, suspicious of what would happen next, he continued to the elevator and before the man could question him further, punched the button and got into the bank. Not caring where he went, he jabbed a knob and suddenly the clear plastic tube hurtled him to places unknown, he thought how dangerous the situation was.

A million considerations flooded his brain and his mind raced to catch up to every thought. If Sav was right, civil war would break out on Andoria and the blue people could overthrow their queen, a woman central to the Andorian's religious beliefs. Completely overturning deep-seated ideas, could destabilize the planet and the region. Archer knew enough history to understand a complete change in paradigm like this usually led to religious wars. Wars, with an "s," being the operative word; wars over religion usually carried on for centuries—one skirmish melding into the next.

He wondered whether Sav would deceive him and what the Andorian would gain from such a lie. Did Sav become a pirate, an outcast, and this was his revenge on the Andorian that put him there? Perhaps after Shran had dishonored the family, Sav had made it his duty to see Krag punished no matter what.

As much as Jon hoped this was the case, he knew it wasn't. Though Shran and his family had suffered, all the information tied together too neatly. Nearly every mission since the war began had turned out badly—that is, every mission that Krag had been aware of.

Jon immediately considered Earth. He thought about whether to contact Prime Minister Pelletier directly, believing he could at least prevent the general from learning military secrets that could jeopardize the war. If the Vulcans or Tellarites learned about Krag, it could further destroy whatever chance the council had at succeeding. Additional fractures could very well mean the dawning of the Romulan Empire, and the enslavement of the allies.

And then he lighted on what was going to happen to Shran and his family, now at the mercy of the general's greatest war ships and trained assassins. Jhamel, Tallah, Shras, and Shran were doomed.

He thought about the deaths of friends and the near-death of T'Pol. Again anger made his heart beat faster and his breath quicken.

His eyes closed. Letting the information rummage around in his gray matter was unnerving. When he opened his eyes, dizzy from the elevator ride and the information flooding his synapses, he found himself by sheer luck on the same deck he'd entered on. Steeling himself, he tapped a few commands on his PADD and saw the way back to ship. Something made him want to run back there, but instead he strode as quickly and purposefully as his limbs could carry him. He didn't want to tip off the Andorians he had a datachip in his pocket that implicated Andoria's top military official.

The market still bustled with Andorians buying goods, techno music harangued from overhead, and the squawk of a rusty-sounding squeezebox barely rising above the music. This time a peddler shoved a blue fist in his face.

"It's all the rage. You'll feel as light as the winged zerberan on Rigel X," a white-haired man confided. "I offer free samples."

"Not interested," Jon mumbled.

His pace quickened, dodging the wares sold at the bazaar — the drugs, Orion women, black market weapons, and more. Adrenaline surged through his body, a vein at his temple jumping to the beat of his heart. Within less than a meter left to go, Jon felt a hand on his arm.

He turned to see the zhen from earlier, smiling menacingly. She was clad in a bikini-like outfit and holding on to a blade at her hip.

"Pink Skin, I believe we should engage in a transaction," she whispered.

"I already told you – not interested," he said.

"What did Sav want?" she asked.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he hissed.

"Come with me," the zhen said, the blade suddenly wielded in her hands.

The admiral dodged as she swung the weapon at him, sucking in his stomach to avoid contact from the blade. Instead, his uniform ripped at the middle completely through the two layers Starfleet personnel wore.

Swinging around she tried again, her hand meeting his kick, hoping to dislodge the weapon from her hand. But Andorian females—especially zhen—were faster and stronger than human males. Recovering quickly, she slashed at the air again and this time made contact with his left bicep, cutting deep into his flesh. Jon screamed out and hit the deck hard. Hoping someone would intervene, he gazed up at the marketplace realizing it continued on almost as if they didn't care what was happening.

Still on the ground, Jon reached for his PADD before seeing it kicked away by a black boot.

[-]

T'Pol had been reading over the history of Coridan, according to Vulcans, written by a prominent political xeno-historian who taught at the Vulcan Science Academy. It was accepted text among Vulcans.

After reading the Coridan version of their own history, T'Pol noted that the Vulcan version lacked some of the significant details that provided context.

For example, in the Vulcan version, the logicians came to Coridan to assist and provide structure to a government in chaos, one that had been fighting what seemed like an endless civil war. But having been to the planet, she knew from her own experience that the structure and order brought was unwanted by the Coridanites. Had the civil war waged on, it would've concluded with a government that focused on home world issues first before reaching out to the stars or other civilizations. Instead of Vulcans being welcomed as peacemakers, they were seen as oppressors.

The Vulcans' action caused Coridan leaders to ally themselves with the Andorians, which further distanced them from the Vulcans. Instead of discussing or negotiating with the Coridanites, she knew the Vulcans became resolute, steadfast in the beliefs they had saved the civilization.

_This is what I must argue and debate if I am to win reparations for Coridan._

Silently, T'Pol mused that no matter the Vulcans' intentions, nearly every race they met loathed them. With the Andorians, the Vulcans provided technology. The Andorians cursed the intervention wishing they could seek their own way in the world. With the Tellarites, the Vulcans created the blueprints to further their race without actually building the technology. The Tellarites were angry they were not allowed to innovate themselves. With the Coridanites, they tried to bring peace, but were seen as imposing their will. And with the Terrans, they allowed peace to be sought first and waited as humans attempted to build technology. Humans, like her husband, were angry that the Vulcans would keep technology and innovation from them.

T'Pol knew she was unique in her understanding of both sides - what Vulcan believed it had done and what the native races believed Vulcans had done. She alone could appreciate both sides of the equation.

As Jonathan would say, Vulcans saw the world in black and white. Vulcans were well-equipped to understand and comprehend facts. Perspective and context were much more difficult. Creative thinking and problem solving was not their strong suit. It made her race exceptionally analytical, but lacking imagination—something the humans had an abundance of and helped them with improvisation.

T'Pol knew the word improvisation did not exist in Vulcan – there was no translation.

She thought Soval might better understand perspective and context, having lived among the humans for years, but that Minister T'Pau would not.

As she stared back down at her PADD making notes on the _History of Coridan_, she felt a tug in her bond.

Jonathan had become more skilled at controlling his emotions and thoughts. After Pon Farr, they had meditated together where she helped with rudimentary control. He proved to be better than she would've supposed. His focus was remarkable, something she wondered if helped by sharing Surak's katra.

Closing her eyes, she allowed their bond to hum and tingle wondering if he had something urgent to share. Ideas and images flowed easily, each one knitting her eyebrows further: her husband had evidence that General Krag betrayed the alliance. Just as she understood the significance, she felt her stomach turn and she stood.

Instantly, her eyes shot open and she hurried to the nearest comm.

She croaked, "Bridge, Admiral Archer needs a security detail on Talon Station immediately."

The man at the helm asked, confused, "Ambassador?"

"Yes," she said, hoping her voice lacked the annoyance she felt. Instead she breathed through the emotion and provided her husband's location.

After that, she rose and walked to Jonathan's closet. There she saw a lavender catsuit, one she had worn many years ago when she a science officer. Looking at the garment, she felt the place where once Enterprise's insignia was located before removing her ceremonial robes of ambassador.

Through her bond, she her husband a message: help was on the way. She got into the suit quickly, prepared for hand-to-hand combat if necessary.

[-]

The battle had waged on. Jon fell again against the deck again, his back complaining and blood running down his arm, before being picked up. He'd earned a bloody lip and was wondering if he'd cracked the same molar he'd injured in a fight with A.G. Robinson. Pausing for a moment to run his tongue along it, he panted.

The bikini-clad Andorian circled him and laughed. "You are old, human."

_Too old to do this,_ he thought.

As the Andorian danced closer, Archer tried to throw a punch, one that swung in the air without hitting the target. Instead, the female nimbly grabbed at his neck for a tarak-hold — something Andorians used for capture. He then felt a blade come to his neck and knew it was pointless to break it.

"Eh sevat sanaa-sul'at," she whispered to him in Andorian.

With his PADD kicked across the room, he couldn't understand her words, but guessed what she wanted. Swallowing, he felt his Adam's apple nick the blade and a cool liquid, what he believed was his blood, trickle down his skin.

He couldn't fight her, the hold too tight, too expert, and he couldn't struggle less he cut his own throat. As intended, his vision became limited as he was on the verge of losing consciousness.

The Andorian repeated herself. "Eh sevat sanaa-sul'at!"

"Let him go," said a familiar voice, behind him, one Archer couldn't quite place.

Suddenly the Andorian's words were translated quickly into English. "We were conducting a transaction," she complained.

A figure appeared before him – Captain Stiles. The captain narrowed his eyes and pointed a phase pistol at the zhen. Archer flattened his lips wondering what Stiles was doing with a phase pistol when an armed security guard made up of Andorians and humans appeared almost directly behind him. The zhen dropped her blade and scowled at Archer.

Jon blinked, taking in as much air as he could manage. The makeshift market selling a bevy of illegal wares suddenly vanished, disappearing like cockroaches when a light was turned on. As he marveled at how quickly that had scattered, he saw another surprising sight: his wife approaching in her old uniform, minus the patch to indicate she worked for Enterprise.

"What-?" he asked, in disbelief.

Instead of answer, she inspected Jon's arm to Vulcanly fuss over it. The admiral smiled down at her in response. She wasn't exactly throwing her arms around him in relief at him being okay, but in his mind, he knew she was doing the Vulcan equivalent.

"I'm okay," he said. With the arm left unscathed by the fight, he moved his hand up to cradle her face. Their eyes locked and he gave her a small wink. _Thanks for sending the rescue squad._

T'Pol's eyes glimmered and he put his hand down as she looked at the guards and Stiles. "Thank you for helping him."

The Andorians ignored T'Pol as they murmured to the zhen that selling herself to anyone, including a human, was against the station regulations.

"He engaged _me_," the zhen said. As if to explain why, her antennae poked over to T'Pol. "No doubt he needed an outlet if he is sharing his mating bed with a Vulcan."

Stiles laughed as the Andorians joined in.

_Let the comment go,_ T'Pol thought.

But Jon thought it was time to put these jerks in their place. Red-face, he gathered T'Pol into his arms, even as his injured bicep complained, and leaned her over for a kiss – a deep one that held passion. After a few moments and what Jon considered was enough of a display to shut them up, he withdrew. T'Pol took a few stumbled steps away as if dizzy.

In this mind he could clearly hear T'Pol admonish him.

_They don't know the half of it,_ Jon projected through the bond.

Stiles winced and the Andorians laughed harder. The leader said, "Only the Pink Skin would have the stakak to be with a Vulcan."

Stiles shook his head. "I don't think it's moxy—it's something else."

Jon was about to retort when T'Pol spoke up.

"Not many Vulcans would have the … stakak … to choose a human," she said flatly.

This made the Andorians laugh harder and one slender woman slapped T'Pol on the back, lurching the Vulcan forward by degrees. After the guards took the zhen away, Stiles turned to the admiral.

"What the hell happened?" Stiles asked.

Archer felt his pocket unconsciously, sighing in relief that the datachip was still in his buttoned pocket. "It's a long story."

"I've got time," Stiles countered with annoyance.

T'Pol spoke up, "I have contacted the medical facility aboard the ship. Perhaps the recounting of the tale can wait until my husband has been seen."

Stiles put his weapon in its holster. "I'll make sure to drop by."

T'Pol took Archer's good arm and made her way through the station back to the ship. During each step they took, Jon heard her mind speak ad nausea about how he should be more careful – specifically that he should've asked Mayweather to stay – and admonish him about the affectionate display in front of the Andorians as if to satisfy his pride in her.

"I'm only human," he said, throwing her a wink.

Although he could tell she was unamused, she displayed two fingers, which he met with his good arm.

She said, "Vulcans are much more private about our affairs."

He sighed, "I know."

"Then next time, you should allow the comment to remain undisputed. I do not care what others believe to be true about our marriage. _We_ know otherwise."

He nodded, although he was pretty sure if someone said something like that again, he would deck them. As they crossed the threshold to of his ship, Jon turned to his wife.

"Honey, you have to understand, it's human to feel pride," he said. He could feel her about to continue the debate, when he switched gears. "Maybe you can we can discuss this later. Right now, I need to see what's on that datachip."

As he turned to walk down the hall to his cabin, T'Pol took his arm. "No. Right now, you should see Sickbay."

He was about to argue, when he looked into her eyes – they held worry as she gazed up at him. Studying her in the uniform she used to wear, minus the patch claiming she worked for Enterprise, he sighed. She had only worn this uniform assuming she would enter the fray and battle for her husband's life.

"Okay," he conceded.

Nodding, as if pleased to have won that argument, she let go of his arm. "You listen to me as your wife much more than when I was your first officer." An eyebrow poked up at her own comment.

He could feel her amusement and chuckled himself, even if he knew in his heart that he always listened to her even when he didn't want to. As they reached Sickbay, he turned to her and unbuttoned his pocket to fish the datachip out.

"In the meantime, could you take this and verify what Sav told me?"

"I will," she whispered. "If what he says is true … I will need to verify it many times over to ensure authenticity."

"If what Sav told me is true …."

"Yes, Adun, but you will need to control that anger."

He felt his breath stutter as he wondered if he could control it. Jon thought for a second if he saw Krag, rather than bring the general to justice, if he would kill on sight. After all, Krag was responsible for killing thousands, including – according to Sav – some of his own people. Worse, Krag had killed people close to Archer personally. For that, he wasn't sure Krag deserved a trial.

"_That_ line of thinking is dangerous and unlawful," T'Pol said.

Jon looked down the corridor and determining no one in immediate eyesight, leaned over to give his wife a peck on the lips. When they broke apart, he said, "I'll see you at home."

[-]

T'Pol reached the cabin, removing Andorian blood stains from it, and then slipped the disc into the computer at her husband's desk. Instantly information displayed – a bio scan on what clearly seemed to be General Krag indicating his Orion ancestry – as well as communiqués where it seemed he knew about the attack on Enterprise that killed Trip, the destruction of Columbia, the outcome of those aboard Excelsior, and the location of Panama itself.

Each layer of betrayal seemed to cut deeper than the one before. General Krag had helped orchestrate the attack on the Vulcan embassy in Shi'Kahr, killing Admiral Forrest, and seemed to be in cahoots with V'Las.

Immediately, she felt her cheeks flush and worked to quiet her thoughts and beating of her heart.

_Among his misdeeds, he has helped to kill my mother._

She ran scans on the chip to determine the points of origin of the information, to confirm the validity of what existed. Each confirmation, she knew, would take some considerable time and in the meantime she knew she needed to exercise and meditate to calm the ancient Vulcan emotions that threaten to overcome her. Much like her husband, she too felt the need for vengeance – revenge.

Changing, she stepped into a jogging suit and grabbed a towel before securing her mate's cabin with a password she shared through their mindlink, an extra precaution necessary due to the sensitive information inside.

Then she ran to expel the anger, much like her husband did, before sitting cross-legged on a mat and trying join tranquility and peace.

[-]

When Archer returned to his cabin, entering the password settled into his mind by his wife, he saw her on the mat with candles lit. By the state of her mind, he knew she was only somewhat successful at the meditation.

As he approached, she opened her eyes.

"How many stitches did you require?" she asked.

"Twenty four," he said. "Skon said it would be sore for a while."

"I did not realize Skon had given those to you," she said.

"You can imagine my delight." He grabbed his bicep flexed it. "But he seemed to do a good job."

A quiet beep sounded at his desk and immediately T'Pol got up to check on the findings with Jon following behind her. The two looked at the results and Jon swore.

"One hundred percent validity," she whispered. "I will of course confirm these results."

Jon said, "Then I'll leave tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" she asked.

"Yes."

"I will accompany you," she suggested.

"And what about Coridan?"

"I believe my aide can argue—"

"You said yourself Skon was not as well prepared to understand the plight of Coridan." He countered, "Besides, I doubt the Andorians would welcome a Vulcan on their home world."

"Still, I—"

"T'Pol, believe me, I don't want to leave you, but I think you'll be safer on Vulcan."

"As safe as Admiral Forrest or my mother?"

He drew her into a hug and held her tightly. "Safer. Sav said he couldn't guarantee what happens on Andoria. And if that zhen that attacked me is what awaits …."

"All the more reason for me to accompany you," she said, almost hotly.

He backed away to study her and she bowed her head. "My meditation has been … somewhat unsuccessful."

"I would never forgive myself if something happened to you," he told her.

"And the same is true if something happened to you."

"Having you safely on Vulcan, a planet close to Andoria, would be better should I need help." And then he leaned his head against hers. "It's more logical."

She seemed unconvinced and her mind scoffed at his use of logic.

Jon asked, "You had already made up your mind to go to Vulcan, even when it meant I could be re-assigned to the front. What has changed?"

She gazed up at him. "Our world."

"When I am done, we'll get married on Vulcan and honeymoon there if you want."

"Jonathan, General Krag may already know what Sav has."

"All the more reason to leave as soon as possible," he said. "The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few or the one, my love. Coridan and the war needs _you_. Shran and the war needs me to talk with the queen."

[-]

Jon tapped a few controls on his desk and took a deep breath. The information he was going to deliver his commanding officer would take a certain finesse, and he wasn't sure he quite had the diplomacy for the day.

A face appeared on the screen, Admiral Matt Gardner. His gray beard seemed shorter and his eyes still had a purple hue to them as if he hadn't slept.

"Jon, this is a surprise. Something happen on the station?" Matt asked.

"Did you hear from Stiles?" Jon asked, his face fallen.

Matt rolled his eyes. "Well, I did get a report from him. I'm not sure why he felt it necessary to tell me, but I take it everything worked out?"

Jon agreed, "It's a long story, Admiral, but it's partially why I'm contacting you."

"Go ahead," Matt said.

"I need to take a leave of absence."

Matt sat down, his jowls sagging at the news. "What?"

"I need to take a leave of absence," Jon stated again. Before Matt could ask, he added, "It's personal."

"You want to take a leave of absence in the middle of a war?"

"Yes."

"With personnel to reassign, ships to coordinate with, and a tow vessel showing up in less than a week?"

"Yes."

Matt wiped a hand over his face and tried to take a deep breath. "Look, if it has anything to do with what Captain Stiles told me – hey, you were off duty as far as I'm concerned and—"

Jon wanted to laugh. "I don't know what Stiles told you, but I doubt it's related. It's personal. I would share more if I could."

"Does it have something to do with T'Pol?"

"No," he responded.

Matt frowned. "You're not giving me much to work with, Admiral."

"I owe a favor to Ambassador Shran."

Matt shook his head. "Jon, I'd like you to be able to return a favor, but now? We just can't afford to have you gone."

Jon frowned, too. "Admiral, if my request is turned down, I'll have no choice but to abandon my post."

"Go AWOL?" Matt growled. "Jon, if you do this, Starfleet will never welcome you back. We'll find you and we'll drag you back to Earth in irons. You understand that?"

"Matt, I'm not sure I have much of a choice."

"We've put up with a lot from you, mister. You've been with someone who's as a security risk, possibly sharing confidential information with her. You didn't even bother to tell me until that relationship had already happened – something that the Prime Minister and I asked you about."

"At the time you asked, there was no relationship." Jon steeled himself and then continued. "I know I'm asking a lot, but this is important."

"More important that the war?" Matt griped. "You've got to run off and do something for Shran, something that may enable the Romulans to win?"

"I know I'm asking a lot, but … trust me. There's no other way."

"You've asked for a lot of trust in the past, and I've always given you the benefit of the doubt. Now? I'm sorry, Jon. The answer is no."

Archer took a deep breath and leveled his gaze at his commanding officer. "Matt, I know I've asked a lot from you, but … this means a lot to me."

"I already told you my answer."

Archer got the idea guards would be posted outside his room if he continued to press the matter. So instead, he nodded as if in defeat. "I had to try. Shran's brother, Sav, contacted me and asked for my help on a personal matter to help out. But … I suppose it'll have to wait."

Matt sighed, "I understand you and Shran are friends, and from what you've told me, Commander Sav saved the crew. I can appreciate you want to help him, but we just really can't afford to lose you right now, Jon."

"Of course," Jon nodded. "I understand."

"Listen, after you have the bulk of personnel moved, maybe in a few months, I can approve for you to be gone for a few weeks."

"I'd appreciate it."

Matt smiled. "Good, I'll talk with the other admirals and get their input." Seeming to relax, he scratched his nearly bald head and asked, "Now you going to tell me what happened on Talon Station, or you going to let Stiles' version hold water?"

Jon forced a laugh, "I'm sure his version makes for a much better story."

Matt only got a little serious, "Your wife doesn't have anything to worry about, does she? I've never known you to be the type to jilt someone. And I like the ambassador."

This time a genuine smile spread across Jon's face. "Admiral, I can honestly say that being married to T'Pol has completed me in ways I never knew were possible. Sounds corny, but it's true. I would never _jilt_ her – it would be impossible anyway."

Matt grinned back. "Well, I'm glad to hear it. I'd hate to see her hurt over a stupid thing you'd done."

"Me, too."

"Wish everyone at Vega's gathering well tonight. And please know she'll be in our thoughts over here."

Jon agreed, "Will do. Thanks again."

"Any time," Matt said. "And let me know when the tow ship arrives."

"You bet," Jon said.

When the view screen faded, Jon's mouth turned down as his jaw clenched. Slowly, he pushed himself away from the terminal and started packing. It was important that he kept his leaving to himself, lest Starfleet find out about it and haul him to jail before he had time to meet with the queen. In the meantime, he'd have to keep up appearances, so no one – outside of T'Pol and Sav – knew he was leaving.

"I can only asking Matt in advance helps in the sentencing phase," Jon said to himself.

Sav sent a message about having a vessel leave at 0625 a.m., a cargo vessel bound for Andoria's main city, the one where the queen was located, Terat. On the ship's manifest, he would be listed as cargo – his identity completely anonymous to even the captain of the vessel himself. And he was told what to bring with him to Andoria, including a heavy coat as it was winter in his home world.

[-]

The party was set up by Westing in an area near the airlock with Talon Station. The party proved to be a good one with many crewmen volunteering to play instruments in Captain Melanie Vega's behalf. As "When the Saints Go Marching In" blasted, T'Pol noticed Skon enter in traditional Vulcan mourning robes – blue material with gold lettering embroidered. Although his face looked serene to those less skilled at noticing Vulcan emotions, T'Pol could clearly see confusion marring his features.

Dressing in dark brown, somber Vulcan robes, T'Pol smoothed the material of her formal attire and walked to him.

"I studied human grieving rituals, but did not see this in the database," Skon confessed.

T'Pol watched a few crewmen talking about Vega, laughing and telling jokes about things she'd done, including punching an Orion female who had boarded their ship. She'd heard that particular story at least three times in the last hour.

"Humans sometimes prefer to celebrate life than mourn a colleague," she said. "They want to recall the good times more than remember the loss of a fallen comrade."

Skon poked an eyebrow at the idea. Finally accepting the information, he reached over for a glass of water.

"Where is Admiral Archer?" he asked.

Her eyes traveled across the room to her husband, beer in hand, telling a few cadets about how Vega had saved his life.

"He came to the medical facility today because he had an altercation with an Andorian," Skon said.

"He did," she agreed.

"He declined to tell me what the altercation was over."

"I would presume so."

Skon poked an eyebrow at her, confused at her answer. "Ambassador?"

T'Pol breathed deeply and then turned to her protégé, avoiding an answer. "I would like to move up the schedule to leave Talon Station."

"Oh?" he asked.

"I would like to leave at oh six twenty five," she told him.

"Why move the schedule forward in time?" he asked. "Would that not limit the amount of time you have with Admiral Archer?"

She shifted slightly. "He will be joining us, although by the looks of how much he is enjoying himself, he may not be much company tomorrow morning."

Skon seemed perplexed.

"During celebrations of life, humans tend to over imbibe," T'Pol explained.

Skon watched the admiral tilt back a beer, and the Vulcan narrowed his eyes. "That is highly illogical."

"It is, and yet it is true," she whispered. "Humans use this time to reflect, think on fond memories, and try to avoid painful ones."

As if on cue the band ended a set, putting down their instruments when Archer got up on stage. The man reached into the pocket of his navy pants and pulled out a PADD. He stared at the words for a few minutes and as the murmuring died down, the smile on his face wilted.

"I came up to thank you all for coming and recall a couple of funny stories about Mel, Captain Vega, but …." He placed the PADD back in his pocket, his smile vanishing. He paused, one that seemed to last nearly a minute as the room became even quieter, so still that no one dared move. Finally, the man before them furrowed his brow.

"We've lost too many good people in this war—friends and family." He searched the crowd as if hoping to land his eyes on as much of the Panama crew as he could, his last nod to T'Pol. "I think we all know entering this war was the right thing to do, but … knowing this war is just doesn't lessen the pain or keep us from missing those who've passed on."

T'Pol watched as he bowed his head for a moment and she knew he was thinking of all the others who perished—those from Dr. Phlox's reports of the dead as well as council members and Trip.

"Panama, you've lost an excellent captain. Someone I counted as a friend," he said. "I've been in tough situations with her, even some that could've meant her death, asking her to trust me really beyond reason. Beyond sanity. I won't say she agreed blindly," he said with a sad smile, "but she always gave me the benefit of the doubt. I'll miss Melanie Vega—her stubbornness, her curiosity, her feistiness, her heroism, and her company."

Someone shouted, "To Captain Vega!"

Archer picked up the beer he'd deposited on the stool next to him and nodded. "To Captain Vega and her crew."

Everyone drank and then Archer spoke again. "I wanted to give a chance for everyone to come up at your convenience and say a few words about those we've lost."

He exited the stage and though T'Pol wanted to comfort her husband, she knew he, instead, wanted to provide comfort to those around him. He wanted to seek out crewmen of Panama and hug people and listen.

The Vulcan closed her eyes and remembered he preferred it that way. Vulcan-like, he hated processing unpleasant emotions like grief and had ever since he was a boy; he retreated when dealing with the deaths of his father, Robinson, Forrest, and even Trip.

Although she knew it was the role of an admiral to be those things, to be more of a father and listen to others' pain, she knew it was part of his DNA. She closed her eyes, thinking that for such an emotional man, a human of great sentiment, he could be so Vulcan-like, refusing or discounting his own emotion. It was a trait she'd recognized long before he encountered Surak's katra.

The Vulcan stood a little straighter and also walked around to talk with the crew, to share her own recollections, but more importantly to listen to others. This wasn't merely the role of an ambassador, but was the duty of a friend.

The night wore on with a few funny stories about her—a mishap with a Klingon when she was at the Academy that led to a barroom brawl, her penchant for red licorice, and an unrivaled adoration for Elvis, a rock and roll icon of the 20th century. There were sad stories, too like those who saw her on the way to the armory before she lost her life or heard her last orders.

People came up to talk about the other crewmen, how a cadet named Zeke was a prankster who died much too young and a lieutenant with two children at home and a husband perished saving someone else.

T'Pol watched the battle with her husband begin to ebb and flow with the tales told. And the more the stories continued, the more the crew seemed to drink, Jonathan included. Finally somewhere around eleven, she decided to approach him.

"I am retiring for the night," she told him.

He looked down at her and then produced a small smile before engaging the Starfleet personnel he was speaking with.

"I suppose I should, too," he said, slurring slightly. He clapped one man on the shoulder and then wound his fingers around his wife's hand to walk with her.

T'Pol wandered down the hall, leading her husband, passing by several crewmen to say her condolences as the admiral chimed in his. Jon stumbled once as Phlox suggested maybe providing him something to help him sleep. T'Pol graciously accepted the canister as Phlox said he understood and would be willing to ask that he report later to duty or have the day off. The Denobulan commented that the crew had been under tremendous stress and needed tonight. Even he seemed unusually puffy, his hair beginning to stick out, as if the emotions of the evening got to him.

"You will keep this confidential?" T'Pol asked.

The Denobulan smile turned exaggerated. "I am his physician first, T'Pol. More than that, I have served with Captain Vega and helped many of the crew members involved. I see it as a moral imperative."

Although both Jon and T'Pol seemed embarrassed, they thanked the doctor and wandered back to their room. When they finally reached their cabin and the door slid closed, T'Pol watched her husband fall onto the bed.

"You had a significant amount of alcohol tonight, Jonathan," she said.

"That was the plan," he slurred. "You think I'll be okay in the morning?"

She tilted her head and poked an eyebrow up in the air. "Most certainly. The Osmatic eel I purchased at Talon Station earlier will certainly remove all traces of inebriation within an hour."

"Hard to believe one eel can do that," the admiral said, his hand running through his graying hair.

She pulled out a slug-like creature from a small terrarium. It wiggled in her hands before she offered it to Archer. Instead of accept it, he held his hand over his mouth.

"You sure it's safe to swallow?" he asked.

"You have done this before," she said.

"I know. I just … I don't remember it wriggling as much." He sighed at it and then nodded and took the creature, stuffing it into his mouth, without further comment.

The man shivered and then looked at his wife. "And I definitely don't remember it being this disgusting."

Her eyes twinkled at him. "It should pass through without incidence."

He didn't seem comforted by that fact. "Best not to say 'should,' T'Pol when talking about what gets passed."

The Vulcan then went over to a small black bag and retrieved a few instruments. Archer continued.

"You told Skon to expect me?" he asked.

"Yes. I believe we have set in motion enough doubt to your whereabouts it will be hard to find where you have gone for at least the short term." She paused. "Although, talking with Admiral Gardner may help them determine your location more quickly."

He shrugged. "Had to try."

She agreed and then took out a few instruments before turning to him, tools in hand. "Are you ready to begin?"

"Best to start now while I still have a buzz," he said.

"Then we will prepare your disguise for tomorrow." T'Pol held the tools aloft and asked her mate, "Let us begin removing your gray hair."

Archer sighed and sat up, nodding, waiting for his disguise to take shape.


End file.
